


Patterns of Recurrence

by deesaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Boys In Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, M/M, Mild Drinking to Cope, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Alternating, Patronus, Romance, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deesaster/pseuds/deesaster
Summary: Harry and Draco have never thought they would become friends after the war, but they are proven wrong when a project in one of their Eight Year classes requires them to work together. Their newfound friendship can only evolve when, after visiting his father in Azkaban, Draco wants to learn the Patronus Charm, and Harry offers to help him.





	1. The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fic is not beta read and the author is not a native speaker  
> Enjoy! :D

_present time, midnight, January 21 st, 1999_

 

Malfoy is in the Forbidden Forest again.

Harry squints at the dot on the Marauder’s Map, at the edge of the school’s grounds. He checks it from time to time, when he cannot sleep; it’s quite reassuring, seeing everyone in their dorms, no danger looming over the castle, nothing unusual except for the odd student or two sneaking around past curfew.

But since the beginning of their second semester of the Eight Year, Malfoy has been out in the Forest for at least another three times, from what Harry has noticed. Alone, for an hour or two at a time. This isn’t something that used to happen before the Christmas break.

Harry’s frown deepens. If once is chance, twice is coincidence, and the third time is a pattern, what’s the fourth time?

He grabs his broom and exits the Gryffindor Tower in a hurry.

 

—

 

“ _Expecto Patronum!”_ Draco cries out, frustration blurring out the happy memory he’d chosen. The faint silver lines produced by his wand are nowhere close to a proper Patronus. He grunts. He’s been at this for almost two weeks, with no result.

He considers himself a more than competent wizard, capable of casting much more challenging spells than the Patronus Charm. The thing is, none of the other spells need a happy memory to fuel the casting. He doesn’t have many of those.

Kicking at a stone at his feet, he lowers himself in the snow, next to his broom, back leaning against the trunk of a tree. His magic is clearly depleted, because he can’t even cast a decent Warming Charm on his sorry arse.

Things haven’t been going well for him, ever since the war. His father has three and a half more years to serve in Azkaban, while he and his mother were pardoned, thanks to Potter’s testimony. They’re now social recluses, despite their best efforts to pay their dues to the magical community. His mother is currently overseeing the renovations at the Manor, since all of their assets were confiscated during the trial.

“Good riddance,” Narcissa had whispered to him, as the Aurors took away all of their possessions, from furniture to books and personal belongings. They were all tainted by the Dark Lord having dwelled in their home.

He returned to Hogwarts at his mother’s plea, even though both of them were well aware he wouldn’t be received well back at school. From his Slytherin generation, very few students have returned, and none of them were directly associated with the Dark Lord, so they choose to avoid him, knowing all too well they risk to be socially compromised as well. It doesn’t truly bother him, it’s not like he wants their company, anyway. But he _does_ miss Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Nott, and Parkinson, in spite of his best efforts not to.

However, Professor Binns had a moment of rare enlightenment when he paired him and Potter up for a project, out of all the people in that bloody boring class of History of Magic, back in November.

The return of the Golden Trio to Hogwarts would mean only trouble for him, he had thought at the start of the year. After his family’s trial, he hated to admit that he is indebted to Potter for saving him and his mother from Azkaban and for reducing his father’s sentence significantly. So he bit his tongue when he first saw Potter and his sidekicks on the Hogwarts Express, holding back one of his usual comments. With a curious lift of his brow, Potter nodded at him in acknowledgement, Draco nodded back, and they went separate ways.

Acting civil toward one another wasn’t as hard as he thought for him and Potter. Apparently, when one of them holds back, the other does so too. So when Binns paired them up, Draco thought he could do much worse, seeing how even the Hufflepuffs sneer at him when they cross paths in hallways. He despised it at first, having to spend time with the Chosen One when neither of them can truly stand each other, but then he realised that Potter has been, for all he knows, the kindest person to him since their return to Hogwarts.

Not that he needed Potter’s pity. Draco pointed that out clearly to the Saviour during their first meeting for the project, and Potter had guaranteed that he doesn’t extend civility out of pity. However that might’ve been, he had no intention of going back to their habit of insulting each other until one of them gives in to anger and shoots an ill-meant spell or two. He’s far too tired for that. And it seems that Potter is, too. The war has rendered them both incapable of sustaining their grudges.

Well, occasionally, while they work together, they _do_ make a snarky comment or two, but it is done lightly, for old times’ sake, and without really meaning it.

Draco also hates to admit that he likes spending time with Potter. His tentative friendship with Potter easily makes the very short list of things that are good in his life right now. Their previous rivalry and his pride made it hard at first to see that, but Potter has his qualities. And it is rather amusing to see Granger and Weasel frown and shake their heads whenever they spot Potter and Draco working together on the project in the library or on the school grounds.

He catches himself smiling faintly, as he twirls the wand—the wand Potter himself returned to him, back in September—between his fingers. That’s a nice memory.

_They were both in the library, and Potter was sitting in front of him, hunched over a textbook. Draco caught himself watching as Potter ruffled his hair up in frustration._

_“I just don’t get it, did Mathilda the Ravenous burn at the stake or not, ‘cause here it says…”_

_But Draco didn’t really care about a ravenous witch who burned at the stake some centuries ago. He was more interested in the curious way in which Potter’s hair seemed to defy gravity by remaining up after the Saviour had carded his fingers through it._

_A book falling off a bookshelf behind Potter’s back distraught him, however._

_“Hush, ‘Mione, I can’t hear what they’re saying.”_

_“Well then quit stomping on my foot already!”_

_Granger and Weasley’s voices were unmistakable. Draco hid his smirk behind a textbook, as Potter raised his head from their study material and rolled his eyes in annoyance at the two voices. You’d think that a year in hiding would’ve made their sneaking and spying more subtle. Draco mentally shook his head at the duo, who were obviously using a Disillusionment Charm or something._

_Potter looked at him almost apologetically, and Draco could have sworn that he saw a faint blush on his cheeks. His chest swells, with pride and another emotion he can’t distinguish, at the thought that Potter is embarrassed by his friends spying on them, that Potter might actually enjoy working on this project, in spite of his perhaps unsavoury partner._

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he whispers, pointing his wand in one last try, while he clings to the memory with his eyes closed. It’s not the vibrant, happiness-infused memory he knows the Charm needs, but it’s the next best thing.

He opens them and blinks in surprise when a more defined silver shape bursts out from the tip of his wand, and dissipates much slower than any other try before.

“You’re not doing the wand movement correctly,” a voice tells him from behind the line of trees.

Draco jumps to his feet, pointing his wand in the general direction that the familiar voice came from. Potter emerges from the tree line, one hand held up in awkward surrender and the other holding his broom.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” he asks, masking away his surprise and lowering his wand.

“I was—uh—out for a flight and noticed the light of your… Patronus? You can’t really call it a Patronus yet, though, can you?” Potter says, leaning against his broom.

Draco huffs. “Bugger off. The spells I cast and the way I cast them are none of your business,” he retorts, more defensively than he intended.

Shrugging, almost as if he knows there is no real heat behind Draco’s words, Potter sets his broom down. “I could help you if you want,” he says casually.

It reminds Draco of the way in which he himself had offered Potter help just a few days ago, when Potter complained to him about some Potions essay Snape had dumped on them, during one of their study sessions for the project. Potter had given him a bright smile and accepted, thanking him.

He hadn’t really thought about it when he said he’d help Potter, but it made him feel strangely good that he’d be the one Potter would seek help from, rather than from Granger.

Draco swallows audibly. Potter looks at him expectantly, but neither of them say anything for a while.

“What’s wrong with my wand movement?” Draco gives in, lifting his chin and meeting Potter’s eyes.

“Uh, well, all right, so. It needs to be more of a circle, rather than a standard full swish, which is basically a circle, too, but, y’know, less definite.”

“Very eloquent, Potter.”

Potter rolls his eyes at him and clucks his tongue. “Arsehole. You know what I meant.”

He can only smirk. “Wouldn’t it be far easier if you showed me how _you_ cast the charm? Just saying.”

From what Draco can distinguish in the moonlight, Potter blushes sheepishly as he switches his weight from one foot to the other. “I, uh, don’t have my wand on me.”

Draco can only blink at him. Is this bloke serious? He’s out _after dark_ , past _curfew_ , in the Forbidden _bloody_ Forest, without taking his wand with him? Does he even consider himself a wizard?

“How you managed to defeat the Dark Lord, Potter, is far beyond my comprehension.”

A nervous laugh escapes from Potter’s lips. “That’s a mystery to me as well.”

Draco tries out the movement the way Potter described it, eyes darting to see the other boy’s reaction. Potter simply nods in approval.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you teaching yourself the Patronus Charm in the middle of the night in the Forbidden Forest?”

Draco freezes instinctively and his hand tightens on his wand. Not because of Potter and his question, Draco can tell he means well, but because he’s forced to remember the reason itself. He visited his father in Azkaban for Christmas, with his mother. It was the first time he’s set foot in the place, and the first time he’s been near a Dementor. He shudders at the memory.

Potter takes a step back cautiously. “It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me. None of my business, got it,” he says, misreading Draco’s reaction and taking it personally.

He shakes off the feeling of whatever weakened livelihood he had left anyway being slowly absorbed by those foul creatures. He refuses to acknowledge that he feels bad for making Potter think… whatever personal thing he had thought.

“I visited my father during the holiday. Needless to say, it was an unpleasant experience,” he tells Potter, clarifying the situation, but steering clear of other details. ‘ _Like how weak you felt in that moment, unable to defend yourself_ ,’ his mind supplies. “I thought the time and place would offer more privacy than other options, but I see that I am mistaken.”

Potter grins guiltily. “And I thought I wouldn’t bump into anyone if I went out for a flight at this hour. We are both mistaken, then.”

Then it strikes Draco that Potter could very well tell McGonagall that Draco Malfoy, a student barely welcomed back at Hogwarts and previously associated with Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself, snuck off at night to practice spells in the Forbidden Forest. And that Draco could also tell McGonagall that her precious Saviour is out in the Forest at the same ungodly hour, without his wand, breaking curfew as well. Quite a situation.

“Won’t say a word if you won’t either,” Draco finds himself saying and is pleased when Potter replies with a smile and a nod.

“Who taught you the charm?” Potter asks curiously, changing the subject. “It’s a bit difficult to learn it from a book without guidance, so I assume someone showed you how to cast it.”

“You did, actually.”

Potter’s reaction is worth revealing where he knows the Patronus Charm from. “Me?” the Chosen one stutters, tilting his head in confusion, scrunching up his nose and furrowing his brows. “When? How? I believe I’d remember that, Malfoy.”

Draco brushes back the hair from his face smugly. “I’ll give you one try to guess.”

Potter’s mouth opens and then snaps shut again. His face morphs into different expressions of confusion for a few seconds, until enlightenment brightens his features. “The DA meeting I held in the yard, with McGonagall’s permission, a few months ago. You snake. You were there?”

Draco confirms it with his trademark grin.

After the war, Dumbledore’s Army had turned into a sort of a duelling club led by Potter, which McGonagall officially recognised and whose activity she even encourages. At the beginning of the semester, Potter held one of the meetings on the school grounds. Coincidentally, it was about the Patronus Charm. Nobody knew Draco was there too, sticking to the shadows behind a pillar, as he watched Potter cast a beautiful, galloping stag, crowd of Fourth and Fifth Years gasping in amazement.

Back in his dorm that evening, Draco tried casting it too, after having listened to Potter’s lecture about fuelling the Charm with a happy memory. He failed, of course, in spite of him pronouncing it right and pinpointing the movements that Potter had explained and shown. He blamed his failure on his lack of happy memories and actual motivation to cast it, besides from wanting to see if the form of his Patronus would be as majestic as Potter’s. Or more majestic. Definitely more majestic.

He dreamt of that silvery stag that night, but he forgot all about it in the morning.

But now, he has the motivation. And, unexpectedly, some happy memories as well, on account of his new association with Potter. All the memories he’s tried so far are related to his mother and his childhood, but none of those have shown as much effectiveness as the one with Potter in the library. He tries not to think why that is, exactly.

Potter just shakes his head, not actually surprised by Draco having been present there without him knowing. He seems to consider something, and it takes him a few seconds before he talks again.

“It’s kind of late and you’re obviously tired,” he points out, but before Draco can contradict him on anything, he continues, “How about this? Tomorrow, after you help me with the Potions essay, I’ll give you a few tips on casting a corporeal Patronus. Deal?”

Draco is actually taken aback by the honesty and openness that Potter shows as he voices the offer. He can’t help but accept it. “You got yourself a deal, Potter.”

“Good,” Potter says, smiling at him in a way no one has smiled at him for a long time. “Race you to the castle?”

But before Draco can make a lunge for his discarded broom, Potter is already in the air, laughing.

 

—

 

Touching his reddened cheeks from the cold, Harry makes his way back into the Gryffindor Common Room, a smile on his face.

To his surprise, Ron and Hermione are up, even though it’s well after midnight. Judging by the way Hermione is perched on Ron’s lap, both of them sharing an armchair made for one person, and their hazy expressions, he’s likely to have interrupted something.

“Harry! What were you doing out so late?” Hermione asks, freeing herself from Ron’s hold and standing up to lean on the armrest instead of remaining in the redhead’s lap. She consciously brushes back a few unruly locks of her curly hair.

“Out stalking Malfoy again, eh?” Ron winks at him, seemingly unbothered by his friend’s intrusion on the moment he had with Hermione.

Harry freezes. How can Ron possibly know he went out to check on Malfoy? “Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a flight to clear my head,” he improvises, much like he did with Malfoy in the Forest.

Ron eyes the broom in Harry’s hand. “I know, mate, it was a joke, you don’t have to get so uncomfortable every time we mention Malfoy,” he laughs.

“How about you don’t mention Malfoy at all, then?” Harry snaps and heads for the dorms.

“What’s gotten into him?” he hears a confused Ron ask Hermione, but he doesn’t linger to hear her reply.

He breathes out once he reaches the room he shares with Ron, dropping his broom and kicking it under his bed. Crashing on the mattress, he pulls out his wand from his pocket, with the intention of setting it on the nightstand. He Transfigures his robes into pyjamas first, way too tired to make the actual effort to change, then he pauses with the wand in the air.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he whispers, once he thinks of a happy memory. His Patronus greets him cheerfully, lighting up the room.

The war has brought many changes in all of Harry’s relationships. Ron and Hermione now have each other and he frankly feels out of place when the two act as a couple, despite their best efforts not to make him feel uncomfortable.

He broke up with Ginny four months ago, a mutual decision based on the differences between them, which they’d only started to notice after the war. Harry hasn’t told her the break-up is also caused by him thinking he might be swinging both ways. They had enough reasons anyway. She wants a career in Quidditch, he can’t wait to become an Auror, and being career-driven while also wanting to settle down and start a family, as they’d initially discussed, never works out. They’re also not as compatible as they had thought, and after the war, the heat kind of simply died out, and they couldn’t rekindle it.

Ron had taken his and Ginny’s break-up quite well, to Harry’s surprise, but it still set some distance between the two of them. He’d thought Harry and Ginny were endgame, as did the rest of the Weasley family, who’d already started planning the wedding. Molly had wept and lamented for days when she found out about the break-up, but she bore no grudge against Harry for it. The least affected by it seemed Ginny, who thankfully still hang outs with the trio, but never with Harry alone—it’s too awkward. Especially now that she started dating Dean Thomas again, about a month after their split.

His newfound friendship with Malfoy confuses him. He often finds himself looking forward to the afternoons in which they work on the History of Magic project, once a week. They have similar studying techniques and they work unexpectedly well together, fact which made them team up on other subjects as well, so now they share notes and study together for Potions and Transfigurations, among others.

In those three months since they’ve been paired up, Harry has slowly let go of his rivalry and animosity toward Malfoy, and it seems that Malfoy has done the same. It would have been one thing if they’d just studied together, but they’ve bonded over Quidditch and they even raced for the Snitch amicably a couple of times.

It’s not like he enjoys spending time with Malfoy more than with Hermione or Ron, or the others. But it’s something _new_ , something that feels right and comes naturally, in spite of what has transpired between them in the last seven years. Some sort of healing neither thought they needed after the war.

Ron and Hermione, of course, don’t really agree with the idea that Harry has befriended Malfoy, listing a bunch a reasons Harry might’ve agreed with in the past. But Harry chose to follow his instinct, instead of their friends’ advice, as he has often done. He’s happy with the result.

And if he feels butterflies in his stomach every time he sees Malfoy smiling, smugly or not, well, that’s no one business but his own. Even though it’s quite painful knowing that the feelings he’s been slowly developing, lying in wait all those years, are never going to be returned, he’s more than glad he has the chance to see those smiles and, on occasion, to even cause them.

He falls asleep quickly, his Patronus watching dutifully over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :D I hope you'll enjoy this ride and that you'll stick with me for the next chapters! I haven't read any fics in which Draco's corporeal Patronus is a plot device, and I hope I'm not accidentally plagiating another fic with a similar idea. This is still WIP, with about 10k words written so far, and past the first half. I can promise you some angsty plot twists and sweet romance if you'll stay tuned in ;)  
> Please feel free to drop a comment and leave kudos if you enjoyed this first chapter! :D


	2. The Dragon

_early evening, September 12 th, 1998_

Malfoy is sitting on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, a textbook in his lap. Just where the Map said he would be.

Harry huffs, amused by the fact that just last month, when he was helping with the repairs, he was putting that very bench back together with the wand he is about to return.

He got a new one, in the meantime, and, well, he supposes he should return the hawthorn one to its rightful master. It behaved surprisingly well in Harry’s hands. Harry feels a pang of sadness as he is about to be parted from it, even though he is quite pleased with his new one.

Taking a deep breath and feeling like he’s about to face the Hungarian Horntail again, he comes out from the hall in which he was idling, making his way toward the unsuspecting blond.

Malfoy’s head shoots up when Harry approaches him. “Potter,” he says, concealing his surprise, “how can I help you on this fine day?”

Harry grits his teeth. He’d hoped he wouldn’t be met with Malfoy’s unrelenting sarcasm today, though it seemed much milder than usual. “Malfoy. Hi. Erm, actually it’s me who can help you.”

At that, Malfoy’s brow almost meets his hairline in an incredulous expression.

Harry had noticed during the joint Gryffindor and Slytherin Charms class that Malfoy’s current wand, his mother’s, as he’d mentioned in the Room of Requirement, doesn’t quite respond to him as a normal wand should. He isn’t lying when he says he could help Malfoy; school has barely started and his academic performance is already suffering because of the wand incompatibility.

He pulls out the hawthorn wand from his bag, revealing it to Malfoy. The blond eyes it warily.

“Huh. I was wondering if I’d ever see it again,” he says, reaching out and looking Harry in the eye, in a silent question. Harry almost immediately extends his hand, smiling softly as he holds the wand out for Malfoy to take.

“I’ve been meaning to give it back to you for some time, but…” he starts, trailing off. ‘But _what? I’ve been putting it off, thinking I’ll have to endure your snide remarks and hateful stares? I didn’t want to owl it to you, so I could get the chance to talk to you and see how you were doing? I had to plan this encounter thoroughly, so this is why it took me this long to seek you out? Or I have been secretly using this wand to practice different spells at night, because using it is oddly comforting and so I’ve been reluctant in giving it back?_ ’ “Uh, yeah… you know,” he finishes awkwardly.

But Malfoy isn’t quite listening to him. He is absorbed by the wand, twisting it in his fingers, relearning its handle and the way it fits in his palm. “Thank you, Potter,” he says absently, without drawing his eyes away from the wand. It sounds like he’s dismissing Harry, and he shows no sign of true gratitude.

Malfoy is thinner than he remembers, and the bags under his eyes make him look as though he hasn’t slept in years. Which might actually be true, what does Harry know? Malfoy’s attitude is all but screaming at Harry to leave him alone, but there’s something inside Harry that tells him not to leave the other boy on his own. Ever since returning to Hogwarts he’s never once seen Malfoy in someone else’s company. His fellow Slytherins, not to mention the other House members, seem to be avoiding him like the plague. He doesn’t know if Malfoy is fine with that, or if he’d accept Harry’s company if he’d offer it.

“Your wand helped me a lot, you know? It’s been of great use to me during…” he trails off, unsure of which words he should use. “So it’s me who should be kind of thanking you,” he tries, completely aware that he’s probably appearing flustered.

Malfoy looks at him and squints. “You’re _thanking_ me, after you violently snatched it from me, leaving me defenceless when I lived in the _same bloody house_ with the Dark Lord? That’s so typical of you, Potter.”

Harry frowns, brushing his hand against the nape of his neck. He didn’t mean for the conversation to go down this path. “I’m sorry it had to be like that, truly,” he replies after a long pause, trying to sound as honest as possible. He feels like smacking himself right in the face.

Something in Malfoy’s eyes softens and he opens his mouth to say something, then he quickly shuts it. He then lowers his head, reverting his attention to the textbook in his lap.

It’s fine, Harry knows how to take a hint. “I’ll see you around, Malfoy.” And he takes off, with heavy steps, without even waiting for a reply.

Partially concealed by shadows in the corridor he came through first, he turns around and looks back at Malfoy. The blond had closed the textbook, wand now in the air. It takes Harry a bit to figure out he’s Transfiguring a stone into a rather large piece of parchment. Amazed, Harry watches the parchment fold itself, movement guided my Malfoy’s wand, into a floating, shimmering dragon, no bigger than an owl.

The origami dragon flies eerily in circles around the courtyard for about a minute, before breathing a bolt of fire and flying right into it. The ashes fall slowly to the ground, without making a sound.

Watching the whole spectacle, Harry almost misses the contentment written on Malfoy’s face, a genuine smile that he’s never seen on those angled, sharp features. It seems like his gesture has been appreciated after all.

 

—

 

_present time, afternoon, January 22 nd, 1999_

 

Harry slams his book shut, carelessly trapping his unfinished, haphazardly-written Transfiguration essay between the pages. He then shoves the book in his bag, slinging it on his shoulder hurriedly. His haste draws Hermione’s attention.

“And where do you think you’re going? We haven’t even started working on the Potions essay, and you know that you need an O on that if you want to qualify for Aurorship,” she says, putting aside her own Transfiguration essay, which is, of course, finished and impeccable.

Harry internally groans at her reminder. “I _know_ , ‘Mione. I’ll be working on it with Malfoy this evening.”

The mention of Malfoy’s name manages to get a reaction from Ron, who was previously mere minutes away from dozing off on top of his homework. “Malfoy again? Harry, don’t you think that—”

“Ron, don’t,” Hermione hushes him, knowing all too well that his comment would only create more tension. “But, really, Harry,” she continues on a calm, but concerned tone, “are you sure it’s fine to spend this much time with Malfoy?”

“ _Yes_ , Hermione. I’m telling you, he’s changed.” He doesn’t want to go into detail about how he believes, judging by his own instinct and by what little he knows from their conversations, that Malfoy never really wanted to be a Death Eater, that he even knowingly helped them at the Manor by stalling and pretending not to recognise Harry.

Hermione purses her lips. “You can’t know that for sure, Harry. What if he has an agenda?”

“ _I_ reached out and tried to befriend him, not the other way around,” Harry firmly states. _‘I’m the one with the agenda.’_

“Mate, why would you even want to befriend him? He’s a slimy little bastard who—”

“All right, I’m heading out. See you later, have fun and all that,” Harry interrupts him, unwilling to hear what Ron thinks of Malfoy for the hundredth time, or to reveal why he really wanted to befriend Malfoy.

“You’d better ace that essay, Harry!” Hermione shouts after him, as he exits the Gryffindor Common Room.

While he waits for one of the moving staircases, he pulls out a small piece of parchment from his pocket.

 

_Meet me in the courtyard at 4. Don’t be late._

_—DM_

Grinning, he quickly casts a Tempus, making sure he’s indeed not running late, then he folds the note he received this morning and puts it back in his pocket. He doesn’t know why Malfoy wants to meet in the courtyard of all places, when they’ve got to study and also practice the Patronus Charm, especially now that it’s been snowing since morning and the cold is practically unbearable.

Stepping into the white wonderland that is the courtyard, he remembers the last time he met Malfoy here, when he returned the hawthorn wand to its rightful owner. He smiles, appreciating the way their relationship has evolved since that moment.

But immediately, he notes with a small degree of disappointment that the place is seemingly deserted. No Malfoy in sight, although with his fair complexion and platinum blond hair, Harry would be surprised if the most intricate Tracer spell managed to find Malfoy in the white blizzard.

He looks around for a minute, the wind whooshing somewhat disconcertingly around him. He regrets not taking the Map with him, ducking his head into the Gryffindor scarf wrapped around his neck and burying his hands further into his pockets, and cursing the fact that he forgot to take his gloves with him. It’s not 4 o’clock yet, he’s probably just early, so maybe he should just wait on a bench until Malfoy arrives—

That’s when something ridiculously cold and humid hits him squarely in the back of his head. Taking a jumpy step forward in surprise and yelping, he palms his hair, taking out small chunks of snow. He then turns around in search for whoever dared to hit him—

Another snowball meets his chest, covering his coat in snow. He brushes it off, then squints around, trying to spot his attacker. Could it be Malfoy? Is Malfoy even the type of person who would start a snowball fight? Harry doubts it.

“Hey! Show yourself, coward!” he shouts, grinning. A snowball fight would definitely brighten his day. And he doesn’t plan on losing it, no matter who he’s fighting against, so he quickly bends down, gathering up snow in his bare hands and discarding his shoulder bag.

He dodges the next snowball, instantly reacting and throwing his own ammunition in the direction it came from. He lets out a small grunt when his ball hits the stone wall of the school, but he starts to devise a plan.

“All right, so you want to play dirty? Fine,” he announces loudly, shrugging theatrically. He then drops down in the calf-deep layer of snow, and he begins crawling, seeking refuge and concealment behind a stone statue. Hoping this buys him some time, he starts preparing more ammunition. He thinks about casting a Disillusionment Charm, like his opponent is most likely using, but he decides against it since he rather enjoys to fight the Muggle way.

A snowball is crushed on the leg of the bench he’s using as shield and he quickly retaliates, his own snowball landing on a clearly Disillusioned silhouette. Thanking his Seeker-like reflexes and his keen eyes, he throws a couple more snowballs in that direction, some of them hitting his assailant, others missing their target. But they’re enough to make the mysterious person retreat.

Harry abandons his post, lifting himself up, and starts following the trail of footsteps the other person left behind. When he realises that the trail is circling the yard, and that the footsteps start to intersect his own, it’s too late already.

He’s tackled to the ground, the body over him not as heavy as he expected. Still a bloke, he assumes, before his face is buried in the snow, the other person letting out a triumphant ‘hah!’. He closes his eyes instinctively, while still trying to overthrow his opponent’s hold over him. This earns a mirthful laugh out of the bloke and Harry manages to wrestle him into the snow, both of them rolling and trying to bury each other’s head into the snow. Harry starts laughing too, any panic he had felt washing away, knowing that he’s not really in any danger. This is actually the most fun he’s had all week.

By the time Harry finally wins their little fight, holding the other person against the snow-covered ground, the Disillusionment Charm had worn off. Sharp features, reddened cheeks and nose, grey eyes with pupils blown wide, platinum hair covered in snow, and a smirk that Harry could identify from a million others.

“Malfoy?!” Harry exclaims, surprised by his attacker’s now revealed identity. “What are you doing?”

 

—

 

‘ _Creating some happy memories, what does it look like to you, Potter?_ ’, Draco’s mind provides. Instead of saying that out loud, he smirks, “You looked like you could use some fun.”

They both stand still for a moment, breathing in each other’s air. Potter’s eyes are widened, and he exhales, hot air hitting Draco’s frozen cheeks. He then shakes his head, starting to laugh, and removes himself off Draco. When he’s on his feet, he extends his reddened, cold hand for Draco to grab, helping him get up.

“Well it _was_ fun. Just didn’t expect you, out of all people, to start a snowball fight.”

Draco fake-gasps, offended. “Are you saying I don’t know how to have fun, Potter?” He places his hand above his heart, dramatically pretending he’s hurt. He _does_ know how to have fun. The fact that he chooses not to, most of the time and especially as of late, is another matter entirely. And while a snowball fight is somewhat childish, he’s always wanted to have one. Potter just seemed like the right partner for that.

“Not in the least,” Potter chuckles, playfully shoving Draco by punching him lightly in the shoulder. The blond squints his eyes, not budging in the least. “Though I should’ve figured out it was you,” Potter admits, avoiding a proper reply. “Only a Slytherin would start a snowball fight while wearing a Disillusionment Charm, and since I was already meeting you here, it was pretty obvious.”

“Well, I can certainly say you fought like a Gryffindor,” Draco declares. “With brute force, courage bordering on stupidity, all while playing by the rules. And yes, Potter, who else would have attacked you in a secluded school yard if not the person you set a meeting with? Thank sweet Salazar you had Granger and her brains attached to your hip all those bloody years.” He tuts loudly, brushing off the snow on his coat.

“And yet, I _won_. In spite of my Gryffindor-ness,” Potter counters, crossing his arms against his chest, grinning.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Worry not, Potter, there shall be a second round. Just when you expect it the least.”

“Not if I start it first, _Malfoy_. And you won’t see me coming, either,” Potter retorts, almost threateningly, playing along.

“My, my, somebody is a Slytherin wanna-be. Where’s that Gryffindor candour you always flaunt? Have you renounced all loyalty to the brave lion?” Draco asks, voice toying with a formal tone.

“If you must know, the Hat intended to sort me in Slytherin, but I asked it to place me in Gryffindor instead,” Potter reveals, shrugging and preoccupying himself by brushing off the snow off his clothes too.

Is Potter joking? He doesn’t look like he is. Draco raises both eyebrows, a bit impressed, after giving it some thought. “Actually, it was quite Slytherin of you to make use of that bench. So I’m not very surprised. I’ll buy it.”

“Draco Malfoy, accepting me as one of his own. I never thought it would ever come to this.” Potter looks genuinely shocked.

Draco smirks, almost lewdly, looking Potter up and down and pursing his lips. “You’d look good in green.”

And he swears that there is redness in Potter’s cheeks that isn’t caused by the cold.

“So,” Potter stars awkwardly, after coughing once. “Where to now? If we want to practice the Patronus, we’ll have to find a different place than the library. And definitely not the Forbidden Forest again,” he points out, retrieving his shoulder bag from where it got thrown aside during the fight.

“Agreed,” Draco says, getting his own bag from an alcove where he’d hid it before. He starts walking toward the school, gesturing for Potter to follow him. “This is actually why I wanted us to meet here first.” Believe it or not, Draco didn’t plan to start the snowball fight beforehand, but seeing Potter so vulnerable, waiting for him in the yard, triggered that first snowball. “I thought about breaking into one of the Charms classrooms,” the blond says. _‘But I didn’t want to look for trouble and draw unwanted attention to myself, so that’s why I chose the Forest.’_ “And at first I believed you would want something less… exciting, but now that I’ve discovered that you secretly owe allegiance to the green-and-silver, I might be inclined to think that you’re up for it.”

Potter snorts. “Hardly. I think we both had enough excitement for the day.”

They both reach the entrance of the school, finding cover from the snowfall and the cold. Draco cards his hand through his hair, shaking out the remaining snow before it can melt, pouting thoughtfully. “All right then. Any other suggestions?”

“What about the Room of Requirement?” Potter asks, and quickly winces afterwards, realising what he’s just said and to whom.

Draco _did_ try to use the Room as a place to practice the Charm. It had been challenging to sneak from the dungeons to the 7 th floor, but it was the logical place. Only if it hadn’t been for what happened there during the Battle of Hogwarts. Yes, Crabbe had been his friend, and even though he sometimes has nightmares about Fiendfyre and what happened in the Room that day, he’s tried to move past it. But the Room won’t open to him. Draco had assumed that it was because the Room doesn’t exist anymore, in any form, because of the cursed fire.

“I tried it before, Potter. It was destroyed in the Battle, _remember_?” Draco says, coldness seeping out his tone involuntarily.

Potter frowns, somewhat confused. “The Room still works,” he says quietly, looking away from Draco. “The Room of Hidden Things was definitely destroyed, yes, but it can still create other rooms. I’m pretty sure of it, I tried it when I was here this summer for the repairs.”

A long pause settles between them before Draco nods. “Lead the way,” he says refusing to add anything else.

On their way to the 7th floor, Potter tries to undo whatever happened to the conversation and mood since the Room had been brought up, through light humour and small talk. But Draco replies half-heartedly, his mind elsewhere.

Is there a reason why the Room hadn’t opened to him? Does it remember what he’s done, bringing the Death Eaters in the school, and burning the Room itself to a crisp with Fiendfyre? It’s true, when he first tried to summon the Room of Hidden Things back in the autumn, to pay respect to his fallen friend, the Room refused to appear. He’d been frustrated and supposed that the Room is gone. He’d only returned to it two weeks ago, willing to try to summon it again for studying purposes, but he was so distracted by the thought of what happened last time that maybe he didn’t do it properly.

Well, Potter would summon it this time. He only hopes that the Room hasn’t developed a grudge on him or something, and that it wouldn’t try to repel him or harm him when he attempts to enter it. He regrets lashing out at Potter, however, and once he gets off his train of thought, he attempts to meet him halfway in the conversation.

When they arrive, and Potter walks past the entrance three times, a door appears, leading to a well-lit room, a wall covered with a mirror from ceiling to floor. In one of its corners, there’s a long desk with two chairs, placed one next to the other.

Draco closes his eyes for a second when he enters it, fully expecting the Room to revolt against his presence and kick him out, but no such thing happens. Relieved, but somewhat frustrated at his own failure of summoning such a room himself, failure that forced him to spend several harsh nights out in the Forbidden Forest, he walks toward the desk. He takes off his coat, hanging it in a rack that the Room provided. Then, he places his bag on top of the desk with a thud, turning around to face Potter.

“All right, who’s ready for some Potions?” he asks in a forced hearty tone, rubbing his palms together.

Potter simply laughs and joins him at the desk.


	3. The Mirror

Draco leans his head against the wall, then he slumps down on the floor, dragging his knees closer to his chest and encircling his arms around them. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Potter is probably rolling his eyes. Without a word, Potter sits down on the floor too, mere centimetres away from him.

The charm is tiring him out, and he’s out of memories to think about. Potter is a good teacher, though. Patient, calm, and yet he still challenges Draco.

It must be near dinnertime, he estimates. Rolling his head away from the wall, his eyes rest on their finished Potions essays, lying neatly on the desk. He sighs. He’ll do this, one way or another. If not today, then tomorrow, or next week. But he’ll do it.

“What form do you think it will take?” he asks, voice quieter than usual. He turns his head toward Potter.

The Chosen One doesn’t look at him, but he swallows audibly, adopting a look on his face that Draco’s seen before when the other boy had been deep in thought.

“I don’t know, honestly. Could be anything, an animal whose traits match yours. Could be one of your parents’ forms,” Potter replies, after a few seconds.

Draco nods. “I don’t think Father could ever cast a Patronus. I’ve seen Mother cast one, however.” Three weeks ago, when they visited Lucius in Azkaban. He supposes his Mother had a happier youth than he had believed. Or what does he know, maybe Narcissa had been indeed happy before the Dark Lord destroyed their lives. “It was a cat.”

Potter raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think yours will be a cat. Doesn’t seem like you, and from what we’ve seen so far, the shape of your Patronus is bigger than a cat’s.”

Draco remembers the wisps and faint lines that came out of his wand earlier. No, not a cat.

“We used to have white peacocks at the Manor. Father adored them, and if he could ever cast a corporeal Patronus, it would certainly be a peacock. I hated them, they were noisy and you always had to be careful when approaching them. I could never take walks in peace,” he mentions. However, he’s not sure what the purpose of sharing this is.

Scrunching his nose, Potter turns toward him. “No, it’s not a peacock either, I’m pretty sure.” He then smiles reassuringly at Draco. “It’s going to be a ferret, most likely,” he says, half-serious.

Draco sneers. “Very funny, Potter.”

Potter just snorts loudly, resting his head against his knees and looking at Draco through his lashes. “All right, not a ferret,” he declares, to pacify the blond, smiling still.

Draco simply shakes his head in exasperation. He spins his wand between his fingers as silence settles between them. He becomes suddenly aware of the other boy next to him and his breath hitches when Potter speaks again.

“Draco?”

It’s perhaps the very first time that Potter actually uses his first name, without a mocking tone, and unaccompanied by his last name. Between masking his surprise and wondering if Potter had really meant to say it, Draco decides that he likes the way his name rolled off Potter’s tongue. It was warm, a bit shyly. So he abstains from replying snidely. “Yes?”

Potter’s voice is quieter than usual. “What about a dragon?”

“A dragon?” he asks, blinking slowly. “As my Patronus?” He furrows his brows in confusion when Potter nods quickly. “Why, ‘cause of my name?” He chuckles, making the connection.

Potter burrows his face into his arm. “It would be fitting, don’t you think?” His muffled voice sketches a faint smile on Draco’s face.

“Yeah, well, I suppose a dragon would be pretty darn wicked,” he says, really considering the idea. “Now, if it’s not a dragon, I’m going to be really disappointed, Potter. And I _will_ blame you.”

Laughing, Potter gets up from the floor, extending his hand toward Draco and helping him up as well. “I’m willing to take that chance. Come on, one last try before we leave. I’m starving.”

They move to the centre of the room, watching their reflection in the mirror wall. Draco closes his eyes, trying to think of a memory, but his mind is blank. “Can’t think of anything,” he tells Potter, frowning.

He opens his eyes when a hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s all right, take your time.”

“We’ll both die of inanition.”

Potter rolls his eyes once, but he doesn’t remove his hand from Draco’s shoulder. “For me, memories of flying or playing Quidditch were really potent when I was trying the charm at first. Maybe try one of those?”

But Draco is more fascinated by their reflections. He’s a bit taller than Potter, and leaner, while Potter has broad shoulders and a stronger build. Even though it’s the middle of winter, Potter is still somehow tanned slightly, his skin tone contrasting aesthetically with Draco’s fair one. A pair of witty green eyes fix the reflection as well, glinting from behind the round glasses that Draco’s begun to like. There’s an idea that’s been planted in his head for quite some time now, and it’s started to grow and flourish and there’s no denying it—they look good when they’re next to each other, they make a perfect combination—

Potter removes his hand from Draco’s shoulder, only to card his fingers through his messy dark hair. Draco’s breath catches in his throat, watching Potter take a step back from him. Mentally shaking himself back to reality, he tries to think of what Potter just said.

“Draco,” Potter’s voice toys with him, and Draco doesn’t know if Potter is aware of it. He _must_ be doing this on purpose, though. “Close your eyes.”

He can’t help but listen. He feels vulnerable, exposed, and yet, unafraid and trusting. Almost wishing that Potter would have said those words to him in a different context and shrugging off those thoughts at the same time, he thinks of a memory from two months ago.

_It’d been just a couple of weeks since Binns paired them for the project. They were sitting beneath an oak tree by the Great Lake, doing research before they would actually start to work on the project. It’d been an unusually warm November afternoon and Potter kept fidgeting and complaining they had to work when the weather was so nice._

_“Stupid project, stupid laws, stupid damn 14 th century,” Potter muttered under his breath._

_Draco didn’t lift his head from his textbook. “You could use a dictionary, Potter. Want me to lend you one? Or do you think dictionaries are_ stupid _, too?”_

_Potter simply sticked his tongue out at him. A couple of more sighs and mumbled curses later, Potter snapped his book shut, loudly. “That’s it for today, I don’t care anymore.”_

_“Oi, arsehole, I’m not doing your work for you! We’re already behind schedule, so don’t you bloody dare—”_

_“Accio broom,” Potter said, after he’d drawn his wand from his robe._

_“Potter. What are you doing?”_

_“Goin’ for a flight,” he replied casually, standing up and waiting for his broom to be Summoned. He reached into his pocket, then brought out his hand in form of a fist. With a grin, he revealed a Snitch, held tightly in his hand. “Wanna join me?”_

_Dumbfounded, Draco shut his book too. If Potter wasn’t going to work, neither was he. But he won’t fly with Potter, either, joining in his stupid game of seeking, ditching their project just because Potter felt like it—_

_“C’mon, Malfoy, live a little. What, you’re scared?”_

_“You wish,” he retorted in a heartbeat, and before he knew it, he’d Summoned his broom too. By the time he’d swung a leg over his broom, taking off, Potter had already taken off himself, having released the Snitch._

_The wind in his hair, the billowing of his robes, the thrill of the chase, the hum of his broom behind him, the feeling of liberation—he’d had no idea he missed them all._

_It was the first time he’d flown since the war. They chased the Snitch for the better part of an hour, racing across the school grounds, taunting each other with meaningless insults. It was also the first time he genuinely laughed in years._

_Potter had, of course, won. Draco fought him off admirably, but he was out of shape. When they both landed, sunset at their backs and out of breath, Potter smiled at him and there was something in his eyes, behind his askew glasses, that told Draco this could be a new beginning._

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Draco whispers, still vividly remembering Potter’s smile.

He opens his eyes in time to see a rather large silver silhouette is expelled from his wand, its contours unclear. Draco thinks he sees legs, a sturdy, but lean body, and some sort of protuberances—wings, maybe?—before the shadow vanishes, after floating briefly and turning in the air.

Potter claps his hands in delight. “That was mighty close, great job! I think I saw wings,” he says joyously. “What’d you think about?”

Draco freezes for a second. “About the first time I was ever on a broom,” he lies. It’s not that much of a lie, he realises then. The first memory of flying, although a memorable moment, was tainted by his father yelling at him and telling him what to do. He was only eight years old, and Lucius was already expecting so much from him, to be the perfect little Malfoy heir. He’s never really flown for leisure. When he competed for the Slytherin team, it was all about training and winning, so he could show everyone that he is his father’s son. Flying with Potter that day felt like flying again for the very first time.

Potter nods and grins. “That’s a good memory. Just a few more tries and you’ll master it, don’t worry, but that’s enough for today. Let’s go get dinner.”

They both pick up their essays and their bags. “Tomorrow, same time, same place?” Draco asks, as they head out the door.

“Today is Thursday, right? I have Quidditch practice tomorrow evening,” Potter says, wincing a bit. “Then we have the Hogsmeade visit on Saturday, and I promised I’d spend Sunday with Ron and Hermione… Does Monday afternoon work for you?”

“All right, Monday it is then,” Draco replies flatly, supressing the unexpected feeling of disappointment that comes with Potter’s announcement that they wouldn’t see each other until next week.

As they wait for the moving staircase, Potter speaks up again. “But hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you... Ron and Hermione and going on a date in Hogsmeade, which kind of leaves me with no Honeydukes raiding partner this Saturday.” His hand scratches at the nape of his neck awkwardly.

Draco is disgusted by the mental image of Weasel and Granger snogging the living daylights out of each other publicly, but his disappointment washes away, replaced by satisfaction and a smug smile. “That’s no question, Potter. But yes, I shall join you.”

“Brilliant!” Potter declares lightly.

When they reach the Great Hall, Potter is fully intending to step through the doors, but Draco panics at the thought of drawing everyone’s attention by waltzing in with none other than the Saviour at his side. Then he’d have to wave Potter goodbye, to sit alone in a deserted corner of the Slytherin table, a space designated to him since the year started. This won’t do.

“I, uh, need to stop by the dungeons first. I’ll see you later. Or in class tomorrow. Good night, Potter.” He cringes at his own words and at how fast he takes off, leaving a confounded Potter behind.

 

—

 

Ron and Hermione eye him weirdly when he joins them at the Gryffindor table, with something akin to suspicion. He fully expects them to start firing questions at him but they effortlessly glide back into their conversation with Dean, Ginny, and Neville, including Harry into it as well. He takes it as a good sign, but he doesn’t pay his mates’ discussion much mind.

He saw right through Draco’s excuse. He knows the blond is trying to avoid the limelight, but he can’t help but feel a bit bothered that Draco won’t spend time with him in public more than he needs to. As if he’s embarrassed to have Harry as a friend. At least he accepted to join Harry in Hogsmeade on Saturday so perhaps it’s not as bad as Harry thinks.

He pushes his mashed potatoes around the plate, wondering exactly how Malfoy became Draco in his head and what possessed him to act so friendly today. Never mind, he knows already. But since their meeting in the Forest last night, he’s felt closer to Draco than ever. He needs to dial it down, or he’ll become much too obvious.

He raises his head from his plate, only to meet Ginny’s smouldering gaze. Dean has his arm around her, toying with a few strands of her hair, and he fails to notice the inquisitive look his girlfriend is giving Harry. When she raises an eyebrow, drawing her head back in a silent but firm question, Harry falters and breaks eye contact. It was as if she’d known exactly what Harry was thinking about. She’s always been too perceptive for her own good.

They all head back to the Common Room together, and on their way out of the Great Hall, their path crosses with Malfoy’s, who is careful not to make any eye contact with the Gryffindors as he passes by them. Dean makes an unsavoury comment that Harry doesn’t even fully catch, making Ginny and Ron snort. The redheaded girl then smacks her boyfriend’s shoulder, shushing him. Harry can’t help but frown.

Malfoy is promptly pushed out of everyone’s mind, but Harry’s, when they start talking about spending an evening around the fire, on the soft velvet couches and cushions, playing Exploding Snap.

However, Hermione has another idea, pulling Harry in a secluded corner once they reach the Common Room. Harry notices that she exchanges a look and a nod with Ron.

“Look, Harry, we’re worried about this thing of yours with Malfoy,” she says, crossing her arms against her chest. “We’re not saying you’re not right or anything, but honestly, it used to be you who thought the worst of him, not us, and just because the war is over, it doesn’t mean that we should forget who Malfoy is.”

 _‘Who Malfoy is?’_ Harry mentally asks himself in frustration. _‘He’s just a boy! A boy who had no choices! He helped us in the end, why can’t you all see? I’m not forgetting who Malfoy is, I’m just beginning to see who he is.’_

Instead of shouting these things at Hermione, he steels himself and asks her, “Is that all, Hermione? I’ve had a long day and I’d rather just get in bed.”

Hermione rolls her eyes for the tiniest fraction of a second, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. “Harry, we think he’s using you. It would do miracles for his family’s reputation if he was seen with you in public. It’s like First Year all over again… and since you already testified in his favour this summer—”

Harry laughs, somewhat bitterly. “The reason you saw Draco tonight making his way alone into the Great Hall like a ‘sodding pup with his shivering tail between his legs’, as Dean put it so kindly, is because he didn’t want to be seen entering with me. Trust me, Hermione, he’s doing the actual opposite. I told you already, _I_ befriended him. And before you ask why, _again_ , it’s because I believe he deserves a second chance. We’ve had this discussion once too many times. Just trust me, all right? I know what I’m doing.”

Hermione opens her mouth then shuts it after a few seconds, furrowing her eyebrows. Considering this a win, Harry pats her shoulder.

“We all need to stop being suspicious of one another,” he says. “Voldermort is dead. The war changed us too much. I thought that you out of all people, as you are indeed the brightest witch of your age, would understand that we need to move on, offer second chances, and rebuild after all that’s happened to us. So for the last time, please drop this.”

Hermione sighs, then nods, realising that Harry is in the right. “All right. Just be careful of who you place your trust in, okay? And don’t forget that Ron and I are here for you.”

“I know. Just—don’t worry too much. Enjoy your last year at Hogwarts, goodness knows when’s the next time you’ll get the chance to study this much,” Harry says on a light, joking tone.

The witch smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll have much more to study when I train to become a Mediwitch,” she states. “Come on, I know you said you’re tired, but just because you prefer Slytherins now, don’t forsake socialising with us lowly Gryffindors. You can’t say no to a game of Exploding Snap, can you?”

Harry rolls his eyes, groaning a little. “You’re killing me. Okay, one game only.”


	4. The Tunnel

Draco kicks lightly at a stone by his feet, burying his face into his scarf. The wind is unforgiving. They’ve chosen a hell of a day for a Hogsmeade visit. Maybe he should’ve stayed in. This would be his first time out in Hogsmeade since… well, since forever. He doesn’t even remember the last time he visited the visit. Apart from that one time in Third Year when Potter humiliated him in that snow (or was it mud?) fight, no other visit was memorable. Looking back on it, that particular visit seems rather hilarious now.

But he should’ve stayed in, for sure. His lip curls in disgust as he thinks of how the locals might whisper and spit slurs in a hateful tone, aggravated by that horrid Scottish accent. And to think that Potter would be there to hear them all, and his presence would stir more gossip and hushed accusations.

He’s been waiting for Potter in the courtyard where they had their snow fight for a while now, and he’s changed his mind dozens of times, trying to decide between visiting a village that would judge him and staying in the Common Room, where the Fifth Years who spelled his bedsheets last night would be sitting, gloating and planning their next prank on him. He was suffocated by his pillow and he drowned in his bedsheets, just because his fellow House members thought he should.

He almost retaliated, he even had the perfect curse on his tongue, ready to be cast (no dark magic, never dark magic), but he then remembered that an ex-Death Eater who curses Hogwarts students with no actual provable claims faces a whole lot more than simple detention with Filch. Not even Snape, who dutifully resumed his position as the Head of Slytherin, would not have been able to weigh in and help him. He faces the same scrutiny as Draco, in spite of that shiny Order of Merlin, First Class that he tried to vehemently refuse, and which was supposed to serve as his final redemption in the public eye.

Draco spins on his heel again, putting aside his inability to decide. Hogsmeade would have Potter. His Common Room would not.

(Hogsmeade would also have Sugar Quills. He’s missed those.)

Hurried steps can be heard coming from the castle, their echo being enhanced by the sound of snow being crunched under heavy feet.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” a wheezing Potter tells him when they meet in the courtyard at last. Huh, he must’ve run the whole way here. His cheeks are red and his coat and scarf are haphazardly thrown on him. He’s not even that late. No more than ten minutes, tops. Draco was the one pacing the courtyard for about half an hour, trying to decide between which dragon to face.

“…Did you oversleep again?” Draco asks, not even surprised at this point. This isn’t the first time Potter has made an entrance like that; he’d often come running and panting at the library, when they were meeting to work on the History of Magic project, repeating the same line he’d just said.

“No!” Potter quickly exclaims, cheeks reddening even more. Draco raises an eyebrow. “…Okay, yes, maybe.”

Draco snorts. “It’s the middle of the day, but somehow, I’m not even surprised. Where’s Weasel and soon-to-be-Missus-Weasel?” he asks, glancing cautiously behind Potter’s back.

“They left earlier, in the morning. Hermione had a lot of shopping to do, apparently,” Potter replies, buttoning up his coat and arranging his scarf properly. “As I said, just the two of us today. You ready to go?” he asks with a smile, straightening up.

Slightly taken aback by how quickly Potter cleaned up and recovered after his mighty spring from the Gryffindor tower to the courtyard, Draco nods, following Potter toward the gates.

 

—

 

Is it a bad thing that Harry considers this a date? Yes, probably. But it’s also probably worse that the person who he’s trying to date doesn’t even know that this is a date.  And it’s also probably a bad thing that he started his improbable date by being late. By only a few minutes, but he checked the Marauder’s Map before leaving the tower and he panicked a little when he saw Draco pacing the yard in which they were meeting.

Late _and_ untidy. He didn’t have the proper time to try, at least, to fix his hair or something. He did oversleep, after all. Draco’s started to know him too well.

He sighs, as he and Draco synchronize their pace as they make their way into the village.

“So, Honeydukes, then maybe a butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks?” he asks, rubbing his palms together for warmth (but also out of nervousness, a bit, not that he’d admit).

Draco agrees, but Harry doesn’t fail to notice a bit of reticence regarding the second part of his proposal. He hides his frown in his scarf, recalling the other day when Draco avoided being seen with him in the Great Hall. It’s a bummer, but surely Draco has his reasons and Harry decides not to ask, but to give Draco the space he needs.

He almost tells him they don’t have to go to The Three Broomsticks, but that would make his ‘date’ shorter. And he’s really craving some butterbeer. And Draco didn’t consciously protest against it. He probably would have said something, wouldn’t he? Draco is a firm believer in voicing complaints, from what Harry knows.

Instead, this causes a small breach in their conversation, allowing awkwardness to set in, at least on Harry’s part. And since Harry is the chatterbox, and Draco is the one with the nods and quiet, short comments, it is somewhat surprising that Draco is the one to break the silence, after a couple of minutes of silent walking.

“So,” he says, after clearing his voice audibly, mimicking the way Harry himself formulated his previous question, “have you got any work done this weekend?”

Harry can’t help but reply quickly, relieved to be rid of the pressing silence, “I got one last look over the Potions essay, and it’s finally done. Hermione has read it too and said it should be a solid O, so I’ve got to thank you, really.”

The truth is, since the brief period in which he had Snape’s Sixth Year Advanced Potions Making book in his possession, he’s been better than ever at Potions, but he still has difficulty regarding the essay-writing part. And because Snape knows he had the book, it’s been quite hard to impress the teacher during classes. But it’s not like he truly needed Draco’s help, but it’s one way in which he tries to bring the two of them closer. Some excuse for Draco’s company.

He’s not _that_ sure of the supposedly guaranteed O, though. You never know what kind of abstract obscure notion Snape might dig up in your essay, saying that it’s fundamentally wrong and it ruins the entire paper, just because he’d like to fail you. He’s been kinder, lately, however. Harry supposes the war changed him, but he’s now biased against Snape, being one of the very few who knows the reason behind his fierce allegiance.

Draco huffs. “No thanks needed, Potter. Once I’ll cast that corporeal Patronus, we’ll be even.”

“Yeah, but still. It’s going to be my first O in Potions in quite some time. So I’m going to thank you whether you like it or not,” Harry says, half playfully, half seriously.

“Fine, you can thank me after I kick your arse.”

Harry doesn’t even have time to utter a confused ‘wait… what?’, finding himself face down in the snow, after being tripped by Draco. At least, that’s what he suspects; it all happened much too fast.

“I did warn you, my revenge shall come when you expect it the least,” Draco’s voice comes from somewhere above him.

He struggles to get back to his feet, grunting. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat to get the snow out of his face, he tries to pin down the blond’s location. Draco had not better used magic to his advantage again, for his own sake. Because this time, Harry is up for playing dirty as well.

“You’ll regret this,” Harry announces to the apparently empty road. He tries to identify footprints in the snow, but he can hardly distinguish his from Draco’s.

“I’m fairly certain I won’t,” Draco shouts at him.

He quickly turns around in the direction it came from, only to be hit in the shoulder by a snowball. Spotting a tree behind which he’s certain Draco is hiding, he starts approaching it.

“Come on, look, I’m hardly in the mood for one of these today, Draco,” he says, raising his hands up in surrender. “Besides, do you really want to—”

But Harry doesn’t get to finish his persuasive (fake) speech, when Draco tackles him to the ground, coming at him from nowhere. Next thing he knows, Draco is looking down at him smugly, holding down Harry’s hands by the sides of his head, straddling his hips, faces dangerously close.

Stunned, Harry doesn’t even struggle much. “This is becoming too much of a recurring thing with us,” he says, remembering all the chases around the Quidditch pitch that ended up in playful wrestling matches, fighting for dominance over the Snitch, and the snow fight from the other day.

Draco simply blinks at him, smug grin widening. “Thank me now, Potter.” Harry can feel his minty breath on his face.

“Never,” he declares defiantly. He tries to obtain the upper hand, but Draco’s hold on his wrists is too strong. Squirming, he accidentally bucks his hips against Draco’s. Harry chokes back a gasp, overwhelmed by the sensation.

“ _Thank me_ ,” Draco says with intensity, face even closer than before. Harry thinks he probably hadn’t noticed the nature of their touch, but then he watches Draco’s pupils widen, stormy eyes fixing his own.

With one final wriggling try, Harry brings their hips together again, this time intentionally, in a slow grind. Chin raised high, not daring to break eye contact, he speaks out, “Thank you, _Draco_.”

Something changes instantly on Draco’s face and Harry can physically feel the shift in power. The hold on his wrists weakens and Draco moves his body off Harry’s. Almost sighing at the loss of warmth and weight above him, Harry accepts the hand Draco extends, helping him to his feet.

“Consider us tied, Potter,” Draco says, pulling out his wand and performing a Drying Charm on himself, thus managing to avoid eye contact and impending awkwardness. Harry doesn’t bother doing so, and he simply brushes off the snow off his coat, occupying himself as well. Draco rolls his eyes when he finally turns toward him, and casts another Drying Charm, this time on Harry.

Taken by surprise by the feeling of Draco’s magic on him, Harry shudders. He opens his mouth, intent on thanking Draco, but he remembers the power play that just took place regarding those very words. Instead, he simply nods toward the other boy.

“Shall we head to The Three Broomsticks first?” the blond says, surprising Harry once again. “I suspect that butterbeer should have an undeniable appeal to you right about now.”

It is indeed cold, and in spite of what has just transpired, Harry isn’t feeling very warm, Drying Charm or no Drying Charm.

“Oh, don’t act like you would say no to a butterbeer right now,” Harry tells him as they start heading toward the pub.

Draco shrugs, feigning indifference and smirking knowingly.

 

—

 

There is a lull in the loud interactions between the patrons of The Three Broomsticks and Draco is aware of it. It started, obviously, when he walked in, accompanied by none other than Harry Potter. He pretends it doesn’t bother him. He tries not to strain his ears, seeking to make out what the few hushed tones are saying. Instead, he focuses on Potter’s ankle bumping into his, as Potter cheerfully sips from his drink.

Before ordering their butterbeers, Potter had quickly assessed their surroundings, eyeing each client that looked like they would protest against Draco stepping foot into the pub. Thankfully, Potter’s presence had been enough to ward off any unwanted provocations. But it started a whole different kind of curious whispers around the tavern. Not many, but noticeable enough.

When they finish their drinks, Potter starts wrapping his scarf around his neck and Draco takes advantage of this moment to pay their tab. Potter turns after him, as they exit the pub, protesting.

“Maybe I just want to hear you thanking me, Potter, have you thought of that?” is the only thing Draco says to silence Potter’s objections, and successfully so. Potter staggers and, out of the corner of his eye, Draco spots a hint of redness on his cheeks.

Once Potter catches up to him on their way to Honeydukes, they continue their walk side by side, elbows occasionally brushing together.

They don’t spend much time in Honeydukes. Draco quietly peruses the shelves for a few minutes, in search for his favourite sweets, but by the time he finds them, Potter grabs him by the elbow, and drags him outside.

“What are you..?” Draco begins to ask, but Potter promptly pushes into his hands a paper bag with the Honeydukes logo printed on it. Draco raises both his eyebrows in confusion. Taking a peek, he notices a handful of Sugar Quills, along with a few other boxes of various chocolates and candies that he happens to like, stacked neatly in the bag. He looks at them incredulously, then back at Potter. “How did you—?”

“I have my ways,” Potter says, winking at him. “Come on, I know a shortcut that doesn’t involve walking all the back through this horrid wind.”

After a few steps, Draco squints. “Potter, we are headed towards the Shrieking Shack,” he deadpans.

“Yes, indeed. You have an apt spirit of observation, young Malfoy,” Potter says jauntily, picking up his pace and taking a bite out of a Chocolate Frog, ignoring its miserable croaks.

“Potter, I have no desire to visit the Shrieking Shack nor do I wish to satisfy your appetite for reckless adventures.”

“Oh, do shut up. It’s perfectly safe.”

“You’re kidnapping me. I’ll scream,” Draco half-threatens, keeping up with Potter’s pace.

Potter snorts. “You’re the one following me. And I bet you’re dying to see it up close.”

“See what up close?” Draco asks, eyes glinting.

Potter blinks, staggered once more. “The Shack, you dolt.”

“Wrong answer. Pity,” Draco says on a disappointed tone, preceded by a ‘tsk’.

Rolling his eyes, Potter punches him lightly in the arm. Draco can’t help but smile, although he feels compelled not to let Potter see it.

As they near the gates of the shack, Draco realises that Potter might just fully intend to lead him into the most haunted building in Britain. Allegedly. “All right now, let’s turn back. You can’t actually be serious.”

Potter just grins mischievously and grabs him by the elbow once more.

“Potter…” Draco tries to warn him, but it doesn’t quite sound like the start of a warning.

“Just trust me, will you?” The brunet’s voice is persuasive and Draco can’t help but listen to him, so he lets himself be dragged into the collapsing house.

Once they reach a tunnel, a discovery Draco isn’t very surprised by, Potter lets go of his arm in order to whisper a ‘Lumos’ and light their way.

Then he quickly turns around, after descending a frail-looking set of stairs, just as Draco steps on one—

“Wait, Draco, don’t—”

But it’s too late, Draco’s foot goes through the rotten wood, trapping itself in the broken stair. He hisses out in pain, completely losing his balance.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot to warn you…” Potter says apologetically.

Draco pulls out his wand, with the intention of releasing his foot from the trap without further damage and heal the scrapes on his ankle, but Potter approaches him first. “Let me,” he mutters.

Potter lowers himself in front of Draco, on the following stair, then rests his hand on Draco’s knee. The blond feels its warmth seeping through the wool of his pants, and he sets his gaze on Potter’s face, taking in the soft wrinkles on his forehead as the boy focuses on casting the spell that releases Draco’s foot. Potter’s magic on him makes him shiver, a spark of electricity blooming across his entire body. Is this what Potter felt when Draco cast the Drying Charm on him earlier, too? The healing spell that follows feels like a caress against his skin and Draco inhales sharply.

“Are you all right?” Potter asks, probably having heard him. He looks Draco in the eye, concern obvious in his features.

Draco can only nod, but he doesn’t stand up yet, even though his foot and ankle feel better than ever before. The light from Potter’s wand had gone out after having finished the spell, leaving the two of them in almost-complete darkness. Draco’s heartbeat hitches in anticipation, but he feels foolish for ever believing that this scenario would play out in a different way.

The grip on Draco’s knee tightens for a moment, then Potter removes his warm hand. Draco doesn’t have the time to process the loss, because Potter feels around, brushing his thigh, until he finds Draco’s hand. He grasps it firmly and Draco’s heart skips several beats. A thousand maybe. It feels like it has stopped for good.

But then Potter stands up, pulling Draco up with him. “Your leg okay?” Potter asks, then lights up the tip of his wand again.

Draco looks away from him, brushing the dust off his clothes. “Yeah,” he says weakly, hating the way he’s heated himself up. He then carefully descends the rest of the blasted stairs. “Thanks,” he tells Potter, just as meekly.

‘ _Oh, Potter, when did you become so cruel?_ ’ he can’t help but think. ‘ _Cruel, cruel, cruel._ ’

They begin threading the tunnel, side by side, proximity imposed by the narrow path. Potter occasionally mutters something related to what Draco should expect further in the tunnel, obviously still feeling guilty about not warning Draco earlier. Apart from that, there is silent tension between them and Draco can’t for the life of him pinpoint its nature.

When they reach the other side of the tunnel, Potter tells him what to expect, but Draco doesn’t truly believe him until the other boy bends down at the exit, and touches something at the roots adorning the exit. He steps out after Potter, looks above and gapes at the pacified branches of the Whomping Willow.

“Is this how you used to sneak out of the castle? Or are there more secret passages up your sleeve that you will try to impress me with?”

Potter chuckles nervously. “Stick around and see for yourself,” he replies noncommittally, shrugging.

Draco shakes his head, pretending to be annoyed. ‘ _I just might,_ ’ he almost says out loud.

They make their way toward the castle, mood noticeably lightened. Draco sneakily casts a Tempus, and he’s surprised to see that so much time has passed and that he’s running kind of late. Which is too bad, because when they reach the hallway leading to the Great Hall, where Potter and he should part ways, one going to the Gryffindor tower and the other to the dungeons, Potter turns to him.

“Uh, I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna go up the Room of Requirement? Not—not to do homework or practice charms or anything… but to hang out?”

Draco bites back a large smile that threatened to take over his features. He wants to say yes more than anything, but he can’t. He hates the fact that he can’t. Surely there was some way in which to postpone—no, he’d promised. And besides, maybe it’s better this way… He has things to solve tonight anyway.

“I’d like to, Potter, but unfortunately, I have places to be tonight. Perhaps another time?” he says, trying his best to convey sincere regret. He gets the feeling that it came out as a snarky refusal.

Potter nods, and his disappointment is clearly etched on his face for Draco to see. Regretting even more the fact that he had to refuse Potter, he reaches out without thinking and touches Potter’s elbow, squeezing lightly, in what he hopes to be a reassuring gesture.

“I’ll see you Monday afternoon, all right?” he adds, warmth in his voice.

The smile that Draco’s begun to adore returns to Potter’s face. “Yeah, definitely,” Potter says.

As they part ways, Draco wonders if Potter’s heart feels just as heavy as his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day, everyone! There you go, our babies are out on a date <3  
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and don't hesitate to comment if you'd like!


	5. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is not beta-read and the author is not a native speaker.  
> Enjoy!

He looks for Draco’s hand in the dark, touching every bit of clothed skin that he finds in his path, and when he finds it, he grabs it, fully intending to never let go. His other hand seeks passage beneath Draco’s coat, settling on a hip, grasping it, not yet daring to burrow itself under the blond’s sweater.

It’s dark, but he knows exactly where to look, he’s not guided by his eyes, but by something else.

“Harry…” Draco whispers his name, in that way he’s been wanting to hear for a long time.

And he can’t help it anymore—he pushes Draco against the stone wall of the tunnel, tightening his grip on the boy’s hip. Draco’s hitched breath only encourages him more, and he entwines their fingers, delighted to feel Draco’s own response, coming in the form of a caress against his knuckles. A cold hand discovers Harry’s neck, nesting in the warmth it finds there and Harry can only step even closer, enticed.

He brushes his thumb against Draco’s hip, gathering courage and finally chasing hot skin underneath the clothes. Draco shivers and Harry breathes out in a mixture of excitement and relief.

“I like you like this,” Harry leans in and whispers in his ear. Then, he plants a chaste kiss on the throbbing pulse of Draco’s neck. He breathes in the blond’s scent, losing himself in it, burying his nose as deep as he can in the nape of Draco’s neck. The Slytherin shudders again, then leans his head back, offering more of himself. Harry can’t help but chuckle.

The pads of Draco’s fingers wander slowly at the back of Harry’s head, nails scraping gently. Harry hums, thoroughly enjoying the sensation and he presses his lips for a second on the underside of Draco’s jaw.  He splays his hand on Draco’s hip, fingers pressing at his back, pulling him even closer and binging their bodies together.

“Been waiting for this for a long time,” Draco tells him, then he kisses Harry’s forehead, warm lips over a jagged scar.

Sighing in contentment, Harry lifts his head from Draco’s shoulder, then he gently rests his forehead against the other boy’s. Draco leans into the touch, bringing their noses together in a brief brush. Harry smiles and he’s certain that he isn’t the only one. He then gives one last affectionate squeeze to the skin of Draco’s hip, removing his hand in order to find Draco’s. However, Draco finds it first, grasping it gently and bringing it to his lips for a swift kiss placed on the back of Harry’s hand. Then he tangles their fingers in an unyielding knot, both their hands being now held in the other’s.

Harry sighs again, overwhelmed. Their hips are touching through the numerous layers of clothing, chests brushing together with every trembling breath they take.

“Draco, I…” he tries, but Draco shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“Shh, I know,” Draco whispers to him, and then the contact between their foreheads ends.

Harry knows what must follow and his heart stops in anticipation, sweet warm breath meeting his lips and—

He wakes up with a gasp, a pang in his chest. He exhales sharply, bringing up his hands to his face, shaken by his dream. He swears in a whisper, dragging his fingers through his hair violently.

‘ _Fuck—fuckfuckfuck._ ’

He feels his rapid heartbeat through his entire body, and he takes a couple of deep breaths in a cheap attempt to calm himself down. The twinge of pain in his chest can only be attributed to helpless longing. How foolish of him.

Is this one way in which their walk through the tunnel from last night could have played out? If he had had more guts? If he had followed his heart? The dream had felt incredibly vivid—his fingers still try to chase other fingers, his tongue itches in a wish to let words out… He even swears that he’s still intoxicated with Draco’s scent.

A quickly-cast Tempus tells him it’s nearing two o’clock in the morning. He throws his blanket away from his body and stands up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and despising the feeling of the cold stone against the bottom of h­is feet.

Damn his dream. Slightly aroused and ashamed of it, because it wasn’t even a very sexual dream, he gets out of bed, and quickly grabs the Map, his wand, and the Invisibility Cloak. Shrugging on his sneakers, he makes his way out of the Gryffindor Tower as quietly as he can, planning to do the only thing that he knows is going to help him through the night: a bath in the Prefects’ bathroom.

He dons the Cloak, then he takes out the Map. “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” he whispers, then taps his foot while he impatiently waits for the Map to configure itself. A quick scan of the Map tells him that the way to the fifth floor is deserted.

However, there is another set of footprints headed down from the Owlery, coming down his way, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat when the name above them is none other than the one that has been haunting his dreams.

 

—

 

_late at night, November 22 nd, 1998_

Draco grips tightly the bottle of cheap Firewhiskey he stole from his House mates, leaning against the wall of the bathroom. Raising the bottle to eye level, he squints, bothered by the weak light. He’d drunk almost half of it. He hates Firewhiskey.

And he hates this bathroom. He’d almost died in this bathroom.

He hates Potter too. Or hates the fact that he’s not sure of that anymore.

‘ _Fuck you, Potter_ ,’ he thinks, taking another swig of the dreadful drink. He wipes at his mouth. ‘ _Fuck you and your kindness, and your hair, and your stupid, stupid smile._ ’

Potter had sat next to him in Charms today. And he’d lent Draco his notes, his neatly written notes, offering him a stupid broad smile, making Draco wish Potter would smile like that to only him and him alone. He hated it.

How is it even possible to get over so much history? The years of hatred, the insults, the ill-meant spells that left scars? The life-debts they owed to one another? The sides they’d taken in the war?

Does Potter know? Does he know how much Draco had wanted to wrap him in his arms and take him away from that place he once called home, where only death had long been waiting for the both of them? Does he know how Draco tried to contain the Fiendfyre, how he panicked when he’d thought they’d both die in that cursed room and Potter _would never know_? How confused he’d felt when Potter grabbed him and flew him out of there, saving his life?

And his wand, his dear, precious wand. Potter had defeated the Dark Lord with it. It obeyed Potter and done the greatest deed that saved the entire wizarding world. Potter, with _Draco’s_ wand. It had to mean something, didn’t it?

He sobs, not knowing what to do with his heart anymore. He thought it would be over. That he’d put it all behind him, try to move on, forget, make a new name from himself out of the rotten Malfoy name that his father’s actions had destroyed. Redemption, acceptance. He sought it all. He had everything under control.

But then Potter came along, and eyed him differently than before, kind green eyes piercing his own, making him question every single thing he thought he had control over. Making him remember everything.

_“Look, you don’t have to say anything. Just listen to me. I’m sorry. For everything. For that time in the bathroom, especially. For taking your wand. For us being forced to be on different sides. I’ve tried to put it all behind me and start anew. I don’t want any more bad blood between us. I just wish we could start over and I hope you’ll someday wish the same,” Potter had said to him two weeks ago._

_They’d just finished the first session of research for their History of Magic project. Neither of them had barely spoken for the entirety of it. At the end, Potter called him back by his last name. Draco didn’t turn around, but he’d listened to Potter’s words, and wished he’d been able to tell Potter that he felt the same. He walked away without saying anything._

_The next time they met, days later, Draco tried greeting Potter with a weak smile. It worked, because Potter smiled back at Draco, with a brilliance that every star in the universe envied._

_And Draco knew in that moment that Potter had understood. Draco didn’t need to tell him out loud that he’s sorry too._

It all started then. The occasional touches that Draco couldn’t tell for the life of him if were intentional or not. (For him, every excuse or chance to touch Potter was a gift—the almost-imperceptible brush of fingers when one handed the other a scroll or a book, the scrape of arm against arm when they’d shift in their seats or when they’d walk together—however small or insignificant or accidental it might be.)

Fuck this. He doesn’t need this. He fought this, for seven whole years, all in vain. It’s a distraction from his path. He needs to finish school, to go back home to his mother, to rebuild, to recover. This _thing_ he feels for Potter, it’s only going to cause more damage. More hurt. More confusion.

It’s been so difficult already. He’s hated by the entire nation. It doesn’t even matter that he’s innocent, for the better part. He’s never killed anyone. He’s never even tortured anymore—he tried, once, in this very bathroom. It made him sick, like he’d tried to cast the curse on himself. Never again.

The mark on his arm, it was placed there in a desperate attempt to spare his mother any more pain, to keep his family safe, in the hope that if he’d keep his head low, endured all that dark magic that was forced into his life, he’d be able to see the light one day.

He’d never planned to fight for the Dark Lord. He’d never wanted the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, a place he wished would never be tainted with what the Dark Lord and his followers irradiate. He’d never intended to raise his wand against Dumbledore. He’d never wanted to follow his father’s path. But he had _no_ choice.

And that doesn’t matter. Not to anyone. Not to anyone, besides Potter. Potter. Fucking Potter.

He sobs again, then, to cover up his weakness, he drinks again from the bottle. He lets himself slide down the wall.

A dark billow of robes draws his attention from his own self-pity. “Who’s there?” he asks, alarmed, though his head is clouded by alcohol.

“Silly boy,” a guttural voice barks down at him. The bottle of Firewhiskey is violently snatched from his hand. “Stand up.”

And Draco does, helped by a firm hand. And then he empties the contents of his stomach in the sink, grasping tightly at the granite. The hand keeps supporting him, keeping him on his feet. When he’s done throwing up and washes his face, he lets himself be taken away by the same hand.

“Professor Snape?” he asks weakly, only then recognising who pulled him back from his drunken stupor.

Snape doesn’t reply, he just leads him back into the dungeons, in a room that Draco vaguely places as his office. He lets himself be dropped in an armchair. A comfortable armchair, much more comfortable than the floor of the bathroom.

“ _What_ were you thinking?” Snape asks him in that unmistakeable drawl of his.

Draco doesn’t know how to reply. “Professor, I…”

“That’s right, you weren’t thinking,” Snape finishes his sentence for him.

Draco can only feel shame, being scorned for the foolish decision of getting drunk by none other than his godfather. He slowly starts to become more conscious of his surroundings, the blur of the alcohol fading. But when he sees that Snape had begun pouring himself Firewhiskey in a crystal glass on his desk, from the very same bottle he’d confiscated from Draco minutes ago, he thinks that he’s still shitfaced drunk.

“The next time you want to drink your sorrows away, Draco, come to me. Salazar knows we both need it.”

 

—

 

_present time, early morning, Sunday, January 25 th,1999_

And so Draco did. Every two weeks or so, he’d find himself in his godfather’s office, sometimes for drinks, sometimes just for a chat. They’d try avoiding the topic of the war, but after a few glasses of that Firewhiskey Snape has loads of stashed away in a cupboard, courtesy of all the confiscations he’d conducted over his career at Hogwarts, they’d end up having all sorts of discussions.

Per example, the one they had tonight.

Draco knows Snape isn’t a drinker. A social one, perhaps, yes. But Snape isn’t social to begin with, anyway. He knows that his godfather appreciates the occasional glass of quality wine or two, he’s noticed this during the many luncheons, dinners, and whatever types of events his mother used to invite Snape to at the Manor. But that’s it.

However, Snape holds his liquor quite well. A secret of the trade perhaps? A spy wouldn’t be much of a spy if he’d let himself be affected by whichever quantity of alcohol. Draco doesn’t know the details of Snape’s time spent in espionage, but he knows enough to respect it and to not question Snape about it. And so far, Snape has been tight-lipped in this matter, with or without alcohol included in the context.

Either way, it was nice to have someone to drink with. Maybe Snape feels the same, what does Draco know? It was one thing, numbing himself away alone in a bathroom, and another ending up in bouts of unprovoked laughter with his godfather at the end of the night, forgetting entirely why they’d met in the first place.

They don’t drink much either, Draco supposes it’s a pretext. That one time in the bathroom had been enough for Draco to know that utter drunkenness doesn’t suit him. There’s never been a repeat of that and there never will. He knows better.

But tonight was the first time he’d visited Snape since the beginning of the new term and they let themselves be carried away, just for a bit. Nothing grand of course, but Draco left his godfather’s office a tad dizzier than usual.

Of course, he needed the pick-me-up in order to deal with the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with Harry Potter, and that he ditched said Harry Potter at the end of what Draco foolishly considers to have been a date. Their first, in fact. And he did it so he could ‘drink his sorrows away’ with Snape, out of all people.

His talk with Snape tonight was confusing, so to say. He’d vented and whatnot, looking for insight from his godfather, but he’d only ended up with more answerless questions. In spite of that, this is by far the most that Snape has shared since their little arrangement had been placed in motion, so perhaps it wasn’t so regrettable that he had to say no to Potter.

 _“I’m fairly certain you cannot be_ that _interested in how I spent my birthday at Spinner’s End, Draco. There is something on your mind. Whether you voice your bothers or not, I believe that this well-aged bottle of Ogden’s finest would best be enjoyed along with something other than trivial talk,” Snape dryly said when Draco began to rely solely on small talk._

_He was right, his godfather. Just minutes ago, he had ended the day he’d spent with Potter, and his mind was completely elsewhere._

_“What are your thoughts on Granger and Weasley?” he asked directly, scratching at the nape of his neck. He’d been dying to know what Snape’s thought on the couple was._

_“Separately, two menaces, in completely different ways. Together, not that much of a menace. They seem to be… not as ill-suited as one would have thought. However, it is regrettable that Granger’s brains will go to waste, that is if she complies to the extended child-bearing pattern that the Weasley family seems to pass on from generation to generation. I have not known you to be on to partake in this type of gossiping, Draco. Care to explain?”_

_“Well… don’t you think—I mean, haven’t you thought, over the years, that Granger would end up with Potter?”_

_He recalled all the times Potter had mentioned Granger the previous afternoon. Far too many for his liking. Then all the times he’d seen Granger staring or frowning at him and Potter. He wasn’t jealous, no, but he couldn’t help thinking that there might be something there._

_“Ah,” Snape nodded once, as if he’d just caught the meaning of Draco’s inquiries. He then rotated the glass of whiskey in his hand, mulling something over. “It would have made some sense, yes. But I find Potter’s association with Ginevra Weasley to be much more appropriate.”_

_Draco frowned. Didn’t Snape know? His mind automatically took him back to one cold day many weeks ago, to an interesting exchange he had with Potter after one of their broom races._

**They’d been sitting at the edge of the Black Lake, when something had crossed Draco’s mind.**

**“Potter, it’s a perfectly fine Sunday afternoon. Midterms are over. How come you’re spending the day with me out of all people and not with the Weaslette?”**

**Potter had chuckled, but Draco didn’t think it was out of sheer amusement. It sounded somewhat bitter and ironic. “We broke up in September, so that’s perhaps why I’m not spending my Sundays with her,” Potter reveals.**

**Draco had squinted his eyes in his direction until the brunet took notice of it. Understanding that it was up to him to share more, and that Draco was not going to express more interest than that, he added with a noncommittal shrug, “Conflict of interest.”**

**It was only in that moment that Draco became aware that sometime during this interesting piece of dialogue, their pinkies had started touching.**

**Draco didn’t catch any sleep that night.**

_“Sir, it might not be that appropriate anymore.”_

_Snape raised an enquiring eyebrow. “What a pity. Fate and I both knew it would be only logical that they would marry prematurely, crowning themselves the spitting image of Potter’s parents. But perhaps it’s for the best. My torture was long overdue to meet its end,” he muttered into his glass, almost as if he were only talking to himself and not to Draco._

_More confused than ever, with raging questions whirling in his head, Draco forgot why he even brought up the topic._

_“How come the world spins around Potter?” he speaks out, almost involuntarily, in a question meant to be rhetorical._

_Snape snorted, in a way that made Draco jolt. How uncharacteristic of the Head of Slytherin. Propping his elbow into the armrest of his chair, then placing his head into the palm of his hand, Snape smothered other snorts of laughter._

_“…Sir? Are you all right?” Draco asked, completely thrown aback by Snape’s reaction. Was Snape having some sort of fit or an episode? Should he fetch Madam Pomfrey?_

_Snape waved a hand at him, an extremely rare smile on his face. “I look forward to the next time you’ll set foot in my office, Draco.” Ignoring the pure confusion etched on Draco’s face, he added, “Now tell me, how was your mother?”_

He’s still trying to make sense of Snape’s words, an hour later, after he’d walked to the Owlery in an attempt to sober up. Which hadn’t been a good idea, considering that Filch frequently roams those corridors. It’s been out of absolute luck that he hasn’t encountered anyone on his way just yet.  

The whole thing had backfired. He’s still considerably drunk, Snape’s behaviour is still a fucking mystery, and his thoughts are still fixed on Potter.

He heads back down, praying to Circe that all the teachers and staff were in their beds. He can’t possibly be using his best sneaking methods at this moment, Firewhiskey still warm in his blood. He doesn’t know how many staircases he’s walked down so far. He only knows that Firewhiskey isn’t the only thing that warms up his blood anymore, once his eyes set on a surprised Potter, idling by the entrance to his tower.

He’s not surprised, like Potter is. What does Snape even know about fate that Draco doesn’t?

 

—

 

Harry doesn’t know what to say at first. Draco is still wearing the clothes from earlier, walking toward him casually, with a relaxed smirk. ‘ _Where’s he been? What’s he been doing?’_ he asks himself, something in his chest pulled taut like a bowstring.

“’Evening, Potter. Fancy meeting you here,” he tells Harry without an ounce of surprise in his voice, and Harry can only gape at him.

Draco approaches him, stepping much closer into Harry’s personal space than usual.

“Draco. What…what are you doing here? It’s two in the morning! You could get caught and—” he says, trailing off, at a loss for words.

Draco simply huffs shortly, carding his fingers through his hair and balancing his weight from one foot to the other. “So could you.”

“Yes, but I have—never mind,” Harry says, hoping that the Map and the Cloak that he’s holding in his arms don’t seem too conspicuous to Draco.

Then, thanks to Draco’s proximity to him, he catches a whiff of his scent. He’s hit by the memory of his dream, the pang in his chest returning. But there’s something off with Draco’s scent. There’s the perfume that Harry knows and adores, along with something characteristic to Draco only, but there’s also something that isn’t there usually. Alcohol? Is that Firewhiskey he smells?

Then he notices the blotchy cheeks, the laziness in Draco’s moves, how unsurely he supports his own weight, something he’d mistaken for casualness.

“… Are you drunk?” he whispers, shocked by his discovery.

Draco quickly takes a step back from him. Harry thinks he might lose his balance and so he reaches out, gripping Draco’s arm.

“So what if I am, Potter?” Draco barks defensively, looking torn between leaning into Harry for more support and violently tearing himself away.

“Shh, keep quiet, you’ll wake up the portraits,” Harry says, ready to cover Draco’s mouth with his palm in case the blond protests more. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the dungeons.”

“No. I don’t need your help,” Draco declares, struggling faintly to escape Harry’s grip on his arm. Harry lessens his hold on him, but he doesn’t let go.

“I know. I know that you don’t. But let me, please,” Harry whispers, and at his words, Draco slumps against his shoulder. They start making their way down to the dungeons together.

Draco mutters something intelligible under his breath—a series of curse words that included his own name, Harry thinks. The brunet shakes his head in disbelief, still shocked by the incredulous encounter.

Touched by how vulnerable Draco seems, leaning on him, the pang in Harry’s chest returns. Cringing at his own feelings, he fails to notice that Draco is observing him.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Potter,” he spits out, trying to distance himself. Harry doesn’t let him, relieved and annoyed at the same time by the fact that Draco mistook his longing for prejudice. The bloke’s drunk, however, Harry can’t blame him.

“I’m not judging you, I swear,” Harry reassures him. “I’ve been where you are, trust me,” he reveals on a low tone, remembering the late weeks of August, when he, Ron, and George hid from Mrs. Weasley in the garden, having smuggled wine from her pantry. Neither of them knew what to do with themselves, since that the repairs at Hogwarts were done and there was nothing to do to occupy their time. There have been more than enough evenings in which Ron had to help him to his bed in the same manner he’s now helping Draco.

The blond says nothing, but at least he doesn’t fight Harry’s help anymore. Seeing that Draco’s steps are becoming more and more limp, Harry suggests taking a break, once they reach the bottom of another staircase.

They both sit down on the last stair, their sides pushed closely into one another’s. Neither of them say anything for a while, and Harry has to check and see if Draco hadn’t fallen asleep. But the Slytherin shows lucidity, although he seems lost into his thoughts.

Turning his head toward Harry out of a sudden, Draco eyes him with something akin to warmth in his expression. “I’ve never told you. I’m sorry too. For everything. And I want the same thing you want.”

Harry blinks in surprise. He takes Draco’s hand without even meaning to, for the second time in the last few hours. “I know,” is the only thing he says out loud. ‘ _But I doubt you want the exact same thing I want,_ ’ he thinks, holding back from brushing his thumb against Draco’s knuckles. Instead, he drags Draco up, just like he did in the tunnel after he’d healed Draco’s ankle. “Come on, let’s get you back to your dorm.”

He would never take advantage of Draco in his state. But he would have played his cards the exact same way, regardless of Draco’s state. He tells himself he’s not a coward and chooses to believe otherwise.

Draco is pliant against him as they thread dark corridors. Feeling a spark of divine inspiration, he quickly checks the Map, trying to shield it as much as he can from Draco. However, the blond is quite sober enough to frown at the Map, “What in the name of—”

Harry promptly covers his mouth with his hand. He only has a few seconds. The Cloak won’t cover them both, so he’s forced to make a decision. “I’m sorry. _Silencio_ ,” he whispers, aiming his wand at Draco and wincing at how he’s forced to treat his friend. He feels tempted to even Petrify Draco, but he only tells him firmly to not move, throwing the Cloak on him, just as Professor Snape turns around the corner, the light from his wand blinding Harry.

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry says, as humbly and innocently as he can.

Snape doesn’t even look at him first, his gaze wandering dangerously close to where Harry had thrown the Cloak over Draco. Hoping that Draco is sober and aware enough to not give himself away, he faces the Potion Master with a faint smile, hiding the Map subtly at his back.

Snape’s smouldering stare rests on Harry. “It is, indeed, a good evening to deduct points from Gryffindor House. 20 points for wandering around past curfew, Mr. Potter. I trust you can find your way back after you accomplish whatever feat has you out of bed at this ungodly hour.”

And Snape walks past him, without another word. Harry feels like slapping himself. What in the world is going on tonight? Snape would have deducted at least 50 points, and would have seen him sent directly to McGonagall’s office. And the way he’d phrased the last sentence… what did Snape even mean?

After Snape is out of ear-shot, Draco shrugs off the Cloak, eyes wide as he feels the fabric of Cloak. He looks as if he’s about to implode.

“Hey. Promise to be quiet?” Harry asks him, taking out his wand. Eyes just as wide, Draco nods. “ _Finite_ ,” Harry whispers.

“Potter. Salazar’s pants, do you have _any_ idea what a powerful magical artefact this is?” the blond says in a low voice, as he’d promised.

Harry smiles. It’s one of the Deathly Hallows, of course he knows. But he isn’t going to give Draco the satisfaction of knowing that as well. “I might be aware of that, yes.”

He didn’t know it possible, but Draco’s eyes widen even more. “This is how—all this time…” he blabbers, making connections between what’s happened in all those seven years.

Chuckling, Harry reaches to take the Cloak back. He’d expected some resistance from Draco, but the Slytherin hands it back with no protest.

“You didn’t have to cover for me. Snape would have been more lini—lean… lenient with me,” he says, slurring a bit.

“Perhaps, but he was already lenient enough. Besides, you were the one smelling like a distillery, not me.”

“I’ll have you know that I smell just fine, Potter.”

‘ _Yeah, I already know that, don’t you worry,_ ’ Harry thinks, amused by the irony life is throwing at him.

Thank Merlin that Draco is such a non-problematic drunk. This could have gone much worse. Relieved at how it all turned out, he takes Draco’s arm again, even though the blond doesn’t quite need him anymore.

“Let’s take you back to your castle, princess,” he teases Draco, laughing quietly at the Slytherin’s muffled disapproval.

When they reach the dungeons, Draco is half-asleep. “Draco,” Harry draws his attention, “we’ll need the password.” He dons the Cloak, thinking that no Gryffindor at whichever hour would be welcomed in the dungeons just like that.

For a few seconds, Draco looks through him, at the place where he disappeared under the Cloak, mesmerised by its powers. Then, he acknowledges that they are exactly at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. “I won’t even ask how you know where the Slytherin quarters are, Potter. I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

Harry sniggers. “You’re right, you don’t,” he agrees, remembering the events of their second year.

Shaking his head, Draco mumbles, “ _Glory never came easy and love was never free_.” The room opens before their eyes, and Harry steps into Draco’s personal space again, in case the blond needs support.

“That’s a nice password,” Harry finds himself whispering.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” Draco mutters lowly.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, not seeing what fits what.

“Never mind. You don’t have to come in with me,” Draco tells him, not knowing exactly where to look now that Harry is invisible.

“Nonsense. I’ll see you up. I’ll never forgive myself if the first thing I hear tomorrow morning at breakfast is, ‘hey, did you hear? Malfoy broke his neck on the stairs of his common room last night!’”

Draco snorts. “Unlikely. I bet you just want to see my dorm.”

“What makes you think I haven’t seen it already?” Harry jokes, although he has indeed never seen the Slytherin dorms.

Draco adopts a weird expression on his face that Harry can’t quite place. He doesn’t say anything else, and makes his way up the stairs leading to the dormitories. Harry follows him closely from behind, watching out in case he missteps or stumbles.

Once they reach what Harry supposes is Draco’s room, he casts a _Muffliato_ on the other curtained bed in the room. Weirdly enough, Draco gives the finger in the general direction of that bed, probably having been previously annoyed or in conflict with his roommate, then he proceeds to feel his beddings, as though he was expecting something to be hidden underneath them.

“Take that off, Potter, I don’t like not knowing where you are,” Draco whispers once he’s done with whatever he was doing.

Harry complies, meeting Draco’s eyes with a tentative smile. “As you wish,” he replies, sure of the fact that Draco won’t know the reference.

Draco freezes for a second, although he maintains the eye contact. He looks as though he’d completely sobered up.

“I won’t ask why or how,” Harry feels the need to say, referring to the state in which Draco had been.

Draco nods, and Harry can tell that he’s grateful. After another moment of silence, the blond takes a step closer to him. “You can leave now, you know.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, but remains anchored to the exact spot by Draco’s bed, not daring to move. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

And suddenly, he does. Because Draco closes the distance between them, arms going around his neck gently. “Thank you. For tonight. But for the afternoon too. I did have a good time,” the blond whispers in his ear.

Harry smiles brightly, allowing himself to be happy and hiding it in Draco’s shoulder. “I’m glad, so did I,” he whispers back, sneaking his arms around Draco’s waist and hugging back.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” he threatens weakly. Harry knows better than to ever mention this again, not only to his friends or to whoever else, but to Draco himself as well.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry assures him. “Just. Be careful, please? I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this anymore, I can’t—I can’t force or order you to… but have a care for yourself, all right? If… If you ever need someone, just know that I am an owl away and I won’t—I won’t judge or tell or anything—”

“Potter, shut up,” Draco stops his rambling, settling himself even more into the hug. “But thank you,” he whispers so quietly that Harry thinks he might have imagined it.

He hugs back as tightly as he can, before leading Draco to his bed and lowering the sleepy Slytherin on the soft mattress. He considers Transfiguring Draco’s robes into pyjamas, but he decides against it. Instead, he simply removes Draco’s shoes, and covers him with the duvet.

By the time he leaves, Draco is fast asleep. He heads back to his own dorm, under the cover of his Cloak, all plans of bathing forgotten. However, the smile on his lips will persist until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this double length chapter and that the multiple flashbacks have given the story more backbone :D Let me know what you liked/disliked! We're kind of nearing the end, so stay tuned for the next chapters ;)


	6. The Patronus

Draco wakes up with an unyielding headache and groans audibly when he remembers the events of the previous night. Wincing at the particular memory of him hugging the daylights out of Potter, a moment of obvious weakness and utter stupidity that could have ruined anything, he buries his head into the pillow, ashamed and guilty.

Although he’s unwilling to get out of bed, courtesy of his nasty hangover, he figures he needs to eat. He quickly changes out of the rumpled robes he’d slept in, after a lazily-cast Tempus tells him he needs to hurry up if he wants to make it to breakfast in time.

The Slytherin table greets him with indifference, as usual, when he takes his spot at its end. Having arrived by the end of the breakfast serving time, he fills his plate with some leftover scrambled eggs and toast without much enthusiasm.

Just as he tries to decide between pumpkin juice and tea, an owl he doesn’t recognize (a school-provided one, he supposes) lands in front of him. He hadn’t been expecting any mail, so he suspiciously eyes her before untying a small parcel from her foot. Needless to say, he has his wand at the ready, knowing all too well that this could be something his jolly Slytherin fellows might have put together in order to torment him.

However, when he undoes the string of the tiny paper package, he is surprised to find two vials, one containing Invigoration Draught and the other Vitamix Potion. Draco knows that both concoctions work splendidly as hangover alleviators, so his suspicions are confirmed when he reads the attached note, written on a narrow piece of parchment:

_Bottoms up, I’m sure you need those. Feel better._

There was no need for the sender to sign the note. He’d recognise that scrawl anywhere.

Feeling his cheeks warming up, his eyes are inadvertently drawn to the Gryffindor table. Of course, Potter is already looking at him, a soft, knowing smile on his lips. Draco returns it weakly, grateful beyond measure. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths, blush deepening as Potter’s smile widens.

Tea, he decides, looking away and hoping no one had been paying attention to the subtle exchange between them. He pours the draught in the cup, deciding to save the Vitamix for later. Then, he takes Potter’s note, rolls it up tightly and slides it carefully in the vial. Gently putting the cork back in place, he pockets the vial inside his robe, treating it like a precious lucky token.

His morning has proven to be more pleasant than he’d expected. Perhaps this won’t be such a bad day.

 

—

 

The soft blush on Draco’s face was worth all the trouble Harry had gone through to get a hold of those potions. It had involved Hermione’s personal stash (the one they’d used while they were on the run last year), ridiculous amounts of begging, and poorly-given, inconclusive explanations. Yet, his chances were far better with Hermione rather than Madam Pomfrey, who would have immediately requested to see the ‘patient’ and would not have given Harry anything, since he is in perfectly good health.

He spends the rest of the day as he’d promised and planned, with Ron and Hermione and the rest of their Gryffindor friends in the Common Room, although he feels slightly disconnected from everything that’s happening around him.

He briefly considers owling Draco and seeing if the Slytherin is up for a snowball fight or something, but they’ve established meeting tomorrow and he feels rather ridiculous. His inability to stay away is becoming problematic. He’s got to tone this down, or he risks losing his sanity. Besides, it’s not like he’s not seeing enough of Draco already. The blond has probably got tired of Harry a long time ago, and has no choice but to tolerate Harry’s presence.

He doesn’t know what will happen to their budding friendship after they finish the project. Which is rather soon, in March. Or after they graduate. Or worse, after Draco finally casts that corporeal Patronus. And he doesn’t want to think of it. If Draco decides that their friendship had only been built on convenience and cuts off all ties with him after they’re not forced to spend time together anymore, it’s going to ruin Harry.

On the other hand, as he forces himself not to think about what losing Draco would do to him, he keeps replaying the events of yesterday in his head, smiling to himself and lounging absentmindedly in an armchair. It had been such a good day. Except for the incident in the Shrieking Shack, with the broken stair, the day was everything he’d hoped it would be.

Also, the events of last night. Boy, he’d never expected that in a million years. Although he’s saddened by Draco’s use of the Firewhiskey, he understands it. He was glad, however, that he’d been there to help Draco; and if this has brought them even closer, well, Harry can’t complain.

Come to think of it, Harry has always been the one in charge of their friendship, hasn’t he? He’s the one who pushed it forward, who kept trying. Draco might not have played such an active part in building what they have now, but he did let Harry in. He’s fought to bring them this far, it would be a pity for Harry to give up once they turn in the project, or once they graduate.

Fuck it.

He’ll continue fight for it. It doesn’t matter that they’ll never go past a problematic friendship, that they’ll never be what Harry would like them to be. Having Draco by his side in any way is enough. Having Draco by his side is worth the fight.

—

 

_the next day, morning, Monday, January 26 th, 1999_

 

Draco’s morning is off to an awful start. For some odd reason, he fails to wake up on time, which is truly unlike him, and must hurry to his Charms class without having breakfast. With a rumbling stomach, and a poorly-tied tie, he barely manages to arrive to class before Professor Flitwick.

There are more than enough seats free in the classroom and he fully intends to take one at the far back of it—but that’s when he sees the Gryffindors and remembers that this is a joint class. His eyes immediately search for an unruly mop of hair, out of his own volition.

He sees Granger and Weasley, sharing a desk, as well as the other members of their elite social group, namely Weaslette and her boyfriend, as well as Longbottom. But no sign of Potter. It was unlikely they would interact anyway, so there’s no point in feeling any amount of disappointment. However, he finds himself wondering about Potter’s wellbeing. He thinks about sending Granger a note or something, since she would certainly know Potter’s whereabouts, but he decides not to stir anything.

He takes a seat as far away as possible from anyone, calming his erratic breathing after sprinting across 3 floors. Flitwick soon enters the class and Draco directs his focus toward taking notes as neatly as he can.

So, when someone slides smoothly into the seat next to him, startling him, he almost breaks his quill and nearly spills his ink.

“Thanks for saving me a seat, did I miss anything?” Potter’s hushed voice is unmistakable. The brunet had snuck in, unobserved by anyone else. However, since his voice has such a distinctive tone, even when hushed, the whole class turns toward him. He smiles sheepishly, ducking his head between his shoulders and mouthing a ‘sorry’. Flitwick squints, as though he’s unable to remember if Potter had been present in class from the beginning of the lesson.

After Flitwick resumes his teaching, Draco silently rips a piece of parchment from his notebook.

_No, and I did not save you a seat. Where have you been?_

Potter takes his note, a small smug smile etched on his lips.

_Ah, so you do care. I would never have guessed. Well, thanks for the seat anyway. I had to see McGonagall for a thing about Dumbledore’s Army, nothing life-threatening._

Draco suppresses a snort when he reads the scribbled reply. He doesn’t have time to write a witty reply, because Potter snatches the parchment from his hand, as if he’d forgotten to add something.

_You all right? We’re still on for this evening, right?_

Draco’s witty reply is forgotten after he reads the new message. Of course he’s all right, how can he not be, especially when the Saviour of the magical world is worried about him? And, of course, that in that moment, out of all existing moments in space and time, his stomach rumbles in hunger. Not very loudly, but still. Willing away the embarrassment, he furiously scrawls a reply to Potter.

_Yes, I am. Yes, we are. Now pay attention to the lesson, Potter._

Potter smiles again in that peculiar way of his. He writes a short message, and after he hands the note back to the Slytherin, he turns around to rummage through his bag, which he previously hung on the backrest of his chair.

_Biscuit?_

By the time Draco stops squinting in confusion, Potter already has a paper bag out, discreetly showing it to Draco underneath the desk, in a silent offering.

He truly is the Saviour, isn’t he? Munching on a biscuit as quietly as he can, Draco pockets the note, making a promise to himself to store it later in the vial from yesterday morning. He doesn’t forget to give Potter a look of gratitude, all while praying that Flitwick won’t notice and call him out for eating in his class.

Sadly, that is the only class Draco shares with Potter today. Pity; all the others pass far too slowly for his liking. He loses his will to focus with every minute of the day, choosing to doodle in the corner of his notes, daydreaming like a silly teenage girl, in anticipation of the evening. He has a good feeling about tonight’s session of practice. He actually thinks he might succeed this time.

He’d never thought he would get here. Spending this much time with Potter, appreciating his company, getting closer to finally casting that blasted Patronus, overall enjoying whatever time he has left at Hogwarts, despite all the difficulties that arose when he returned here. Since the start of the new term, his life has seen some good changes, and he is most grateful for them. Even if they all are related to Potter.

Involuntarily, his thoughts trail off, to the point in which he starts wondering what will happen to them when they graduate. They’ll distance themselves from one another, for sure. That might even happen the moment they turn in their project. Potter might lose interest in spending time with him once they no longer need to cooperate and be civil to each other. And Draco doesn’t know if he has the guts to put his heart on the line and confess that he’d like them to remain friends after Hogwarts. Not to mention that he would never be courageous enough to confess his true feelings. Bravery is Potter’s thing. And Potter doesn’t even need to have this sort of bravery, not regarding Draco, at least.

Potter will become an Auror. He’ll settle down, start a family with one lucky witch. There’s no doubt in that. Meanwhile, Draco doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his life. He still desires redemption and making an honest living more than anything, but as a career choice? He’s never been sure. He’s always toyed with the idea of becoming a Curse-Breaker, but now, after the war, he’s not sure anyone would hire him due to his association with dark magic. Who in their right mind would trust him handling powerful magic?

So hasn’t made many hopes for his future. He is determined to earn his place in the world, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s _hopeful_. However, he allows himself to hope that maybe Potter will be by his side for some part of his future. Maybe his life won’t have to be so grim if Potter continues to spread light into it.

He clings to this thought as he drops off his bag in his dorm room at the end of his classes, then heads off to the library to kill some time before his meeting with the Gryffindor. Knowing he needs to keep a positive mindset for tonight, so the casting will come easier to him, he tries to push all his negativity to the back of his mind.

Choosing some random book from the Dragon Section of the library, he finds a secluded spot, far away from the judgement of other students, and starts to leaf through it without much interest.

After some time—he’s not sure how many minutes it had passed—a hand rests on his shoulder. He stiffens, hand grasping his wand firmly.

“Wishful thinking, huh?”

Potter’s head is far too close to his own, green eyes studying the cover and title of his dragon-related book. He removes his hand from Draco’s shoulder, then he offers a small smile as a greeting. Draco relaxes, breathing out. The corners of his mouth turn up softly, almost involuntarily, as a response to the brunet’s smile. Then, he returns to his book, pretending to be unsurprised by Potter’s arrival.

But yes, wishful thinking. He’s not sure he deserves a dragon as his Patronus, but that definitely is a nice concept.

“If I ever see that map of yours again, I’ll set it on fire, Potter. Along with that fancy cloak.”

Potter laughs cheerily. “I didn’t use it, I swear! I just knew I’d find you here,” he declares, lifting his hands up in surrender. Or to show that the map isn’t on his person. “I knew I shouldn’t have revealed my secrets to you.”

Draco huffs. “Your secrets are perfectly safe with me. As long as you don’t use them, and by them I mean your ridiculous artefacts of supreme sneaking, to my detriment. I swear, you really would have made quite the Slytherin.”

Shaking his head and grinning, Potter touches his shoulder again. “Shall we?”

And Draco has no choice but to stand up, place that boring book back on the shelf from where he took it, and follow Potter out the library and up six floors, toward the Room of Requirement.

“I learnt to cast the charm by practicing on a boggart, so I’ve been asking around. Apparently, there is one, hiding in an old broom closet on the third floor that could become a mock-Dementor for you to practice on,” Potter relates as they approach the Room. “But then I realised that my boggart probably isn’t a Dementor anymore, so I can’t help with its shape, and I don’t even know what, uh, your fear is… and if it’s even appropriate for me to ask you…”

Draco did encounter a boggart in the Manor, over the summer. No, it was not a Dementor at that time. Probably it still isn’t a Dementor, considering that he still frequently has nightmares of that boggart, of his mother lying on the floor, body broken in a pool of blood.

“A boggart wouldn’t be of use,” Draco tells in a quiet voice him, after a pregnant pause.

Potter nods quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps. “Right, okay. Sorry for bringing it up,” he says apologetically, sensing that he made Draco think about something very unpleasant.

Draco waves his apology away, along with the thoughts the mention of the boggart brought, and gives Potter what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He hardly wants things to be awkward now.

When they reach the Room, Potter immediately begins summoning it and Draco watches him, leaning against the wall. The glint in his green eyes, amplified by the lens of his glasses, the unique grace in his stride, the strong line of his shoulders—he’s not admitting that Potter is a perfect human being, not even close, but to Draco, in the low light cast by the sconces of the 7th floor, as Potter focuses and dedicates his time to Draco and Draco only, he could very well be.

Sighing, he walks away from the wall, following Potter in the Room he summoned. He takes off his robe, throwing it on an armchair placed in the corner of the room, then he rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. Taking out his wand, he gives it a few swishes to warm up his wrist, but he ends up openly staring, more or less, at Potter’s reflection in the mirror-covered wall.

Well, fuck. Potter had also discarded his robe and now he is taking his sweet time fumbling with the two top buttons of his shirt, undoing them. Yes, the room is warm, but not _that_ warm. And yes, Draco has to stop himself from reaching out and undoing those buttons himself. He forcefully tears his eyes away, suddenly finding the tip of his wand very fascinating.

Then, Potter turns toward him, and Draco does everything in his power to not gaze at the patch of skin that the buttons had revealed.

“Well, have you picked a memory yet? The first ones in a practice session are always the easiest to choose,” Potter tells him, leaning against the mirror wall and crossing his arms against his chest.

Swallowing hard, Draco nods weakly. He’s been thinking all day of this first memory. But he’s not sure it would work. “I have a question, though,” he says. “Does it matter if the memory is recent?”

With a smile that hints at knowing what Draco refers to, Potter shrugs lazily. “How recent are we talking?”

Draco blinks. “No older than a couple of days,” he replies, somewhat sheepishly. His cheeks get unbelievably warm in just a few short seconds.

Potter’s smile widens, but he ducks his head to hide it. “Well, the most potent memories are those which have survived the years and their feeling was preserved in time. I suppose recent ones could work just as well, because you can recall the feeling better, but it has to be a really strong feeling, otherwise it doesn’t compare with the old, potent memory.”

Draco nods again, just as weakly. He changes his grip on his wand multiple times, until he feels like he’s ready. He closes his eyes, calling the memory forth and letting himself float in it, engulfing himself in its feeling.

_Potter’s red cheeks and messy hair, fighting against the wind to reach him, breath erratic—Potter pinned underneath him as they wrestle, snow hiding them away from the rest of the world—Potter brushing against him, thanking him, when he should really be doing something else with that mouth—Potter’s leg lightly bumping into his as butterbeer brings their frozen limbs back to life—Potter shoving a bag of his favourite sweets into his arms, winking at him and smiling so, so beautifully—Potter’s healing magic on him, hand on his knee, then hand holding his hand, so, so, so close—Potter, Potter, Potter…_

But can’t cast it yet. He needs to know. This has been eating at him ever since Potter attempted small talk, back in September when he returned Draco’s wand to him. Eyes still closed, struggling to keep his breathing steady, he asks: “Potter, why did you befriend me?”

Potter’s voice echoes in the room, after several long seconds of silence, much closer to him than Draco’s ears would have expected.

“Because I’ve been worried about you for a long time. Because I had the chance to. Because I’ve been wondering all those years how my life would have been if we’d shook hands that day back when we were eleven. Because I know we’ve had the potential right from the start. Because you were long, long overdue for a second chance. Because you’ve been lonely, Draco Malfoy, and I know what it means to be lonely.”

Draco takes one last deep breath and it feels like he’s inhaling the very essence of Potter’s reply.

“ _Expecto Patronum,_ ” he whispers, clinging with all his willpower to the memory and to Potter’s words.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Potter’s amazed expression. He’s really done it, then. The happiness of the memory flows through him, and he allows himself to truly feel it for one second. But then, he turns his head, and his eyes rest upon his Patronus. And his sky falls over his head.

A familiar silvery stag gallops across the room, stopping right in the middle of it, between him and Potter. It tilts its head curiously, hoof tapping soundlessly against the floor.

He nearly collapses right then and there, because he can’t breathe, and his heart tears itself to pieces in his chest. No. No. This simply _cannot_ be.

“Potter,” he says, voice shaky. “How do I make it go away? Potter—”

But the stag has all of Potter’s attention, mouth agape, beautiful green eyes failing to comprehend—

And Draco can’t take it anymore. “ _Finite_ ,” he tries weakly, in a cracked voice, almost dropping his wand. The stag vanishes, clearing the space between the two of them.

Potter’s eyes search for Draco’s, hoping they would find an explanation. But Draco can’t give any, so he averts his eyes. He only has one option.

He runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there :D So, yes, this is the big reveal of the fic! I don't know if there's a lot of it but--surprise!! Angsty smangsty, I hope you enjoyed this chapter at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it :D  
> Don't be afraid to leave a comment and please don't forget to leave kudos if this chapter was to your liking <3


	7. The Kiss

Draco runs like he’s never run in his life. He runs down tens of flights of stairs, and a dozen corridors, until he reaches the dungeon, stopping only when he gets to the only other place in the castle where he has felt safe this year. Feeling like he’s seconds away from fainting, he violently knocks upon the door with a desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time.

The door opens promptly, a black-clad Severus Snape ceremoniously raising an eyebrow and moving aside to let the despairing Slytherin in his office. The second Snape closes the door, Draco starts to pace inside the office, hands tugging at his hair.

“He knows, Professor,” is the only thing he says. He has the feeling that Snape might know what he refers to.

“What did you tell him?” Snape drawls, emphasising each and every word.

“I didn’t tell him anything—my Patronus, it was my Patronus…” Draco tries to explain, trailing off.

Hearing this, Snape tilts his head, blinking. “Obviously.”

“Obviously? What do you mean, obviously?! I am ruined, godfather, _ruined_! He knows and it’s all ruined now—” Draco repeats hysterically, pacing even faster.

“I assume you ran away. Have you given him a chance to react? He _is_ a Potter, after all. Their intelligence only makes rare, brief appearances.”

“How could he possibly react? I’m not daft, he’s going to distance himself away and officially reject me, using actual fucking words and I don’t want to hear it, I can’t—”

“Draco. Would you make the smallest effort to _calm down_? Take a seat and breathe before you pass out on my rug.”

Draco heeds his words, crashing on an armchair and resting his head into his palms. “I didn’t know what to do, so I ran. His face, when he saw it… it really can’t have been a good thing. Idiotic stag.”

Snape opens and closes cabinets, shuffling different potions around, before turning toward Draco, holding a small vial. “Calming Draught,” he simply says, handing it to the blond, who downs it without question.

The effects of the potion almost instant and as a result, Draco slumps into the armchair, muscles relaxing and breathing slowing down. He briefly glances at the teacher’s desk, just now noticing the stack of essays that Snape was probably grading before Draco interrupted his evening.

Snape eyes him with his arms crossed against his chest, fingers tapping on his arm in a slow sequence. “You do know what it means when your Patronus copies a trait of another person’s, if not the shape itself altogether, do you not?” he inquires in a slightly condescending tone.

Draco nods weakly. Of course he knows. Even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be hard to deduce the meaning of such a thing. But Potter did tell him at some point, about the meaning of his own Patronus, about his parents’ matching shapes, and even about Draco’s cousin, Nymphadora, and the change of her Patronus when she fell in love with Remus Lupin. It’s a pattern, showing up in stories about star-crossed lovers.

“What are you going to do about it?” Snape asks calmly.

“I can’t do anything. I’m just…I’m just going to have to endure whatever comes next,” Draco replies, bowing his head in resignation. If it weren’t for the Calming Draught, he probably would have burst into tears by now. “I just need time away from him. I can’t handle facing him right now.”

Snape clicks his tongue. “Well, that is unfortunate. Because, knowing Potter, I am most certain that he is currently posted at my door, waiting for you to come out. I half-expected him to break down the door and barge in by now, but as much as I dislike to admit, he has begun to show maturity and patience. However that might be, regrettably, you will have to face him tonight.”

Draco purses his lips. “Yeah, you’re right,” he admits, with a sad laugh. “He’s Potter, after all, I don’t know why I thought I could escape him. Can I at least hang out in here for a while? I still need some time.”

Snape is already pouring Ogden’s in two glasses, a finger’s width of liquid in each. Draco appreciates the gesture, taking the glass he’s handed, but he doesn’t drink from it. Snape takes his seat back at his desk, picking up from where he left of with the grading of essays, leaving Draco to his own devices.

Truly thankful for everything that the Potions professor has done for him, not only tonight or in the past few months, but throughout his entire life, Draco mulls things over in his armchair, enjoying the quiet company. When he’s ready, after numerous minutes, he stands up, and places the untouched glass of Firewhiskey on Snape’s desk.

“Sir? Are you sure he’s really at the door?” he asks, reluctant to believe that he’s about to face Potter again.

Snape stands up as well, and with a perfectly blank expression, he crosses the room with a firm stride. “Allow me,” he says flatly, opening the door.

He looks curiously over Snape’s shoulder, in an attempt to confirm Potter’s presence or lack thereof, making sure he can’t be seen from the outside of the office. However, Snape’s body hides most of the doorway.

“Mister Potter. Your lurking is most unappreciated,” the professor’s words settle Draco’s fear.

Snape moves aside, revealing a concerned-looking Gryffindor, sitting down on the corridor floor with his back against the wall, hunched over a piece of black clothing that he holds closely to him. It’s Draco’s robe, the blond realises, the one he’d discarded in the Room of Requirement earlier this evening. Potter quickly stands, lifting himself up with a small jump.

Draco steps back, startled at the sight of the Gryffindor, concealing himself from Potter’s field of vision.

“Sir! Could I please talk to Draco? I know he’s in your office,” Potter pleads, then cranes awkwardly as if he’s trying to see inside the room from the narrow angle of the half-opened door.

“Indeed. I suggest you take Mister Malfoy and remove yourselves from my office and its vicinity. A more private location should do. I bid you both a good evening.”

Not even paying attention to the frown he causes on Potter’s face, Snape turns around, looking at Draco expectantly, and Draco knows he’s out of both time and choices. He walks toward the door, taking a deep breath.

 

—

 

When Harry was left alone, staring at the vanishing traces of the Patronus’ silver light, it took him several seconds to process what had just transpired. His hand immediately went to his mouth, to choke a gasp that sounded more like a sob. His shoulders shook in both surprise and elation. 

Then, he realised that Draco ran away. His first thought was ‘why...?’. Why would Draco run away from—Oh. It hit him even harder. Yes, he was proud of Draco for what he had just achieved. But what baffled him, amazed him, made his heart soar, was the shape of it.

Everyone knows Harry’s Patronus is a stag. Even Draco knows.

Draco’s Patronus is a stag, as well.

It can’t be a coincidence.

Draco is in love with him.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s the only plausible explanation. Only that type of feeling would be enough for a Patronus to copy another’s shape, Harry knows that all too well. Their friendship alone wouldn’t be able to do that on its own, right? And such a beautiful thing cannot be born out of strong hatred, either. Even though Harry is quite sure that hatred was never something they’d truly felt for each other.

But Draco ran. Obviously, he knew what his Patronus meant. But _why_ did he flee? Doesn’t he want to be feeling what he feels? Had he not been aware of his own sentiments until that point? Is he embarrassed, or he doesn’t want Harry to know? Harry couldn’t remember the last time he felt so confused. Hurt and worry had swept him in that moment, but he knew that he must run after Draco.

So, he did. Grabbing their robes and exiting the Room, he rushed to his tower. He entered the Gryffindor Common Room like a hurricane, grabbing the Map like an enraged Harpy. Homing in on the names on the Map, his heart leapt when he saw Draco’s name, footprints drawing circles on the floor of Snape’s office. He then stormed out of his dorm, leaving several of his mates perplexed. Not that they weren’t used to it, but it’d been awhile since he felt such urgency.

He sprinted all the way to the dungeons, breathing rough and perspiration starting to form on his forehead. He debated whether to barge in, but Draco probably needs his space. He decides to let the blond come out on his own when he’s ready.

He let himself slide down the wall he was leaning against, the cold floor welcoming him as he waited for countless minutes, heartbeat never slowing down.

He must let Draco know. He must show him. And if Draco even remotely wants him, he’ll gladly put it all on the table. ‘ _I love you too, you nutter._ ’

When Snape pushes Draco out the door, he wants to yell it, to touch Draco in some way—in any way, but he must show Draco first…

The frozen, frightful expression that Draco adopts after Snape shuts the door in their noses makes him want to envelop the blond in his arms, to tell him that it’s all right. But he simply whispers, “Draco. Come with me, please.” And he grabs Draco’s hand instinctually, but he doesn’t make another move, as he waits for consent.

Draco gulps audibly and nods, not saying anything just yet and averting his eyes from Harry’s. It’s good enough for Harry, so he drags the Slytherin after him, in an old Potions classroom, opened with a skilled _Alohomora_. He then locks the door, securing their privacy.

The desks and the chairs are all pushed to the edge of the room, stacked in the corners, leaving a great empty space in the middle, that looks eerie in the poor light. Still holding on to Draco’s hand, he guides them to the centre of it, after he places Draco’s robe on one of the stack of chairs.

“Promise me you won’t run off again. No matter what I might—no matter what. All right?” he makes Draco promise, in the semi-darkness of the classroom.

Draco nods again, weakly, still not uttering a single word.

“I need to show you something. Will you let me?” Harry asks, a soft plea in his voice.

Draco finally meets his eyes, squinting as though he fails to understand what Harry has to show him. He studies Harry’s face with curiosity, then nods for the third time, with more certainty than before.

Satisfied with the permission, Harry lifts his wand in the air with the hand that isn’t still latching onto Draco’s. Choosing one of the many happy memories he made together with Draco the past few months, he swishes it. “ _Expecto Patronum._ ”

Majestic wings, glimmering scales, curious tail, imposing claws. A dragon fills the space of the empty classroom; it takes a single step forward, then, with a swift push of its wings, lifts itself in the air. Draco’s hand tightens in his own, gripping his fingers.

Wide grey eyes shift from Harry to his silver dragon. With a small bitter smile, Harry watches all the little shifts in the Slytherin’s expression, as he processes what he’s witnessing. The dragon lands in front of them, eyeing Draco with interest and tilting its head.

“Potter—you can’t possibly… Is that what I think it is?” Draco mumbles, his fingers slowly losing their strong grip on Harry’s, relaxing into a comfortable hold.

Harry shrugs. “It’s probably what your Patronus would have been if it weren’t for… you know.”

“You mean—that’s why you kept mentioning dragons and you wouldn’t demonstrate the charm yourself! But… how long?” Draco rambles, making Harry smile harder, but without the bitterness.

“The shape? I noticed the change a few days before Christmas. As about what caused it, well, I should have realised much, much earlier,” he replies, squeezing Draco’s fingers softly. “I don’t know if it’s clear to you yet, if you even know what our Patronuses mean, but,” he adds, taking a deep breath. “I really, _really_ want you to know that—”

He doesn’t get to say what he’s been wanting to say for so long, because the next thing he knows, Draco crashes into him, hands firmly placed on both sides of Harry’s head, a warm pair of lips landing on his own. The dragon vanishes, Harry completely losing his focus, as the first brush of their lips together wakes up a fire inside of him that takes over his mind and body.

Closing his eyes and losing himself in the feeling of Draco’s body pressed into his, of the kiss he’s been waiting for his entire life, he responds enthusiastically, arms circling Draco’s waist and pulling him closer, palm and fingers splayed possessively on the blond’s back, mapping the muscles and the elegant line of his spine. Draco sighs into his mouth, changing the direction of the kiss, a hand trailing down Harry’s neck, leaving behind pure fire, to rest on his pectoral. The other hand seeks purchase in Harry’s hair, at the nape of his neck, fingernails dragged in a slow, nerve-wrecking motion, at the base of his skull.

Harry moans involuntarily, opening his mouth and letting Draco take advantage of that, the Slytherin’s tongue looking for his and meeting it in a touch that has something warm coiling in Harry’s gut. To get back at Draco, he sneaks his hand up his shirt, knowing that his cold hands would make the blond shiver beautifully in his arms. He did, but in response, Draco bites playfully on Harry’s lower lip, making the Gryffindor growl and push him against the wall after he sets his hands firmly on the blond’s hips, using his position of leverage.

Draco gasps softly when his back meets the wall. In an attempt to bring their bodies even closer, Harry slides his knee in between Draco’s, the move earning him a hitched groan from the blond. Harry takes mental note of each lovely sound, cataloguing it for future reference. He grins and moves his lips down, against a hint of stubble, finding a spot on Draco’s jaw worth worshipping. One of his hands stops its trailing on the skin of Draco’s back and hips to come up, so he can undo the top button of Draco’s shirt and pull on his tie, providing himself with more skin to explore. He continues pressing hard kisses and light ones alike, exploring Draco’s jaw, neck, and collarbone with his mouth, loving the idea of the marks they might leave behind.

Draco’s hand remains buried in Harry’s hair, the light tugs letting Harry know that whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it right, along with the soft small gasps that Harry might just become addicted to hearing.

“Hey, Potter?” Draco pants quietly, when Harry brings his head back up, inhaling Draco’s scent as he trails his nose on the side of his neck.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, distracted, pressing his mouth gingerly to Draco’s in a short, affectionate kiss. “I reckon you should have started calling me Harry by now. But yes, go on,” he speaks against Draco’s lips, meeting grey eyes that watch him intently from behind long eyelashes.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Harry chuckles, capturing the blond’s lips into yet another kiss, somewhat awkward, because he can’t stop smiling. He then plants tiny, innocent kisses all over Draco’s face, cupping his jaws gently with his hands. The blond pliantly melts into him, closing his eyes.

He draws his head back. “Hey, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes open slowly, and Harry marvels at the affection reflected in them, along with the vulnerability and hope. He brushes his thumbs against the warm skin of Draco’s cheeks, still unable to stop his smiling.

“Yes, _Harry_?”

Harry chuckles again, biting his lips in a useless attempt to smother a too-wide grin. He loved the sound of his name coming Draco’s lips far too much. “I think I’m in love with you, too,” he says, voice reflecting his happiness.

“Great, now shut up and kiss me again,” the blond retorts, mirroring Harry’s smile and leaning closer, their noses and foreheads bumping together as they breathe in each other’s air, the impact of the intimacy making them both shudder.

Harry has no choice but to comply, chasing Draco’s mouth with his own. He could really get used to this, he realises, after Draco drags his lips against his in a long, slow motion, convincing him to open his mouth so their tongues could meet again in a languid dance. It wakes up things inside him, things that he knows they shouldn’t quite explore tonight, but he can’t bring himself to break the kiss just yet.

It’s Draco’s turn to seek skin under Harry’s shirt, his turn to slowly bruise fragile skin under Harry’s jaw, as his lips taste at his pulse. When he’s done, eliciting a low moan from Harry, he drags his tongue affectionately over his work, humming as if he’s pleased of it. Against his own will, Harry grinds his hips against the Slytherin’s, no longer fully in control of his reactions.

Draco whimpers, his hands clawing at Harry’s skin, lips stilling. “We should stop, for now,” he rasps, half-heartedly. His breath leaves goose bumps behind on Harry’s skin.

“I know,” Harry replies, “but I don’t really want to.”

“Neither do I,” Draco agrees, removing his hands from warm hips and fumbling in the dark until he finds Harry’s own hands. The Gryffindor gladly takes them into his own, caressing the knuckles with his thumbs.

“We should talk, though,” Harry points out, touched by the way in which Draco buries his head in the nook of his neck.

Draco hums in approval, sighing. He lets go, bringing his arms together around Harry’s waist in a loose hug, leaning with half of his weight on Harry. Pleased by the display of trust, Harry brings up a hand to cradle Draco’s head on his shoulder, fingers carding through silky hair.

“Yeah, we should,” Draco whispers, somewhat reluctantly.

“For me, it’s simple. I want this. What just happened, I want it all and more, so much more. I’m yours, if you’re mine too. The rest we can figure out on the way.”

There’ll be obstacles, obviously. But Harry gets the feeling that not intimacy or trust are going to be the ones posing problems, but the world around them, society especially. They can overcome it all, though, if they don’t let themselves be torn apart by the way in which the world brings out their differences. Whatever requests or conditions Draco might have, he knows he’s ready to negotiate and compromise. He wants this more than anything.

Draco huffs softly against his neck. “It’s not that easy, Harry.”

Smiling again at the use of his first name, Harry presses a small kiss on the side of Draco’s head. He can almost hear the wheels clicking and turning in that beautiful brain. “It is. Trust me. Just say yes.”

“Harry…” Draco hesitates, lifting his head from where it rested so he can look at the Gryffindor.

“I _know_ this can be great. You know it too, we both just felt it. We’ll take it slow, work around the other things as they come. I just want you, whatever the cost. Say yes, _please_.” Harry’s heart thumps in anticipation as Draco blinks, taking a deep breath.

“All right, yes. _Yes_ , you stubborn, impossible—”

Draco doesn’t get to finish whatever endearing insult he had prepared, because Harry pins him against the wall again in a searing kiss.

 

—

 

“Can I walk you tomorrow to breakfast?” Harry asks him, somewhat shyly. Draco doesn’t see what he has to be so timid about now, considering the make-out session they just ended on a very not-shy note.

Harry has just walked him back to the Slytherin Common Room, and now they linger idly in an alcove nearby, reluctant to part ways. Adorably enough, they held hands the entire trip, Draco momentarily forgetting that anyone could walk by and see them.

Needless to say, the evening has played out much, much better than he could have imagined. Talk about lack of happy memories. He’s sure that the memory of tonight could power at least a thousand of those new silvery stags of his.

“Of course you can, Potter. But I don’t know if you might.” he says cunningly, leaning against the wall and using their latched hands to pull Harry along with him, mirroring their earlier position.

“Really? Grammar, use of my last name, and no answer?” Harry grabs at his heart with his free hand, faking hurt. “You break my heart,” he whispers, mouth mere inches away from Draco’s lips, taunting him with proximity.

“Yes, Harry, you may walk me to breakfast tomorrow morning,” Draco rolls his eyes and sighs, not even bothered by what the other students might have to say when they’ll see. Draco is finally happy. He couldn’t care less. His boyfriend has just offered to walk him to breakfast and he won’t say no on their account.

Harry hums, pleased by the answer. He finally leans in, pecking Draco’s lips.

The blond almost protests when Harry doesn’t offer more than just a peck. “You don’t have that cloak of yours with you, do you?” he asks toying with the string of Harry’s robe, the one Draco himself had tied earlier for him.

Harry smirks, catching his drift. “I don’t take it everywhere I go, you know? Don’t worry, I’ll bring it some other night, maybe we’ll sneak out of the castle, or you could come up to my dorm, for a change.” He winks.

Draco blushes, slapping his arm lightly. “Not what I meant, idiot.”

Laughing, Harry quickly replies. “Shh, I know. I really don’t want to leave you here, either. It’s cold and humid and your housemates are total shitheads. I don’t know how you’ve put up with this for so many years.”

Touched by his worry, it’s Draco’s turn to steal a chaste kiss. “I’m a Slytherin, it’s in the job description,” he shrugs when he pulls back. “Come on, we risk being seen and it’s almost curfew,” he adds, pulling on Harry’s hand to get him moving.

Harry pouts. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“I don’t think so, either,” Draco tells him, amused.

Harry kisses him three times, each time longer than the previous one. He then takes a step back, on the verge of saying goodbye and leaving.

“Wait, one more,” Draco whispers, pulling him back to kiss him one last time.

The brightness of Harry’s smile when he breaks the kiss rivals the sun’s.

“Okay, now you may leave. Goodnight,” Draco informs him innocently, balancing on the soles of his feet.

Harry laughs. “I’ll wait for you here in the morning. Goodnight,” he says, squeezing Draco’s hand and then letting go. He leaves for his own dorm, and Draco watches him walk away, until he makes a turn at the end of the corridor and Draco can’t see him anymore.

A second later, the Gryffindor turns around, his head and half of his body showing up from behind the wall he just walked past. Even though the distance is considerable, Draco can make out the three words that Harry mouths.

Smiling and shaking his head, he mouths them back, then turns toward the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. He steps in after speaking out the password, not even bothering to steel his face and hide his smile. He’s in an excellent mood tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the moment we've all been waiting for! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and I hope it rose to your expectations :D The last chapter will contain some good ol' smut (obvi) and an epilogue, so stay tuned! Feel free to drop a comment below and don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed this chapter <3  
> PS: I skipped classes so I could write this chapter and _I'm proud of it_ ~


	8. The Key (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is not beta read and it contains explicit smut.  
> Enjoy!

_four months later, late afternoon, June 5 th, 1998_

 

Draco sets his quill down, almost ceremoniously. He doesn’t bother rereading his answers, he already knows he’s going to ace this exam. His last exam.

He throws a glance at Granger, two rows to his left. She’s still writing furiously. He probably won’t get a higher grade than her, she _is_ the brightest witch of their age after all, but it’s still going to be mighty close. Maybe if it hadn’t been for the distractions he’s had this year, he could’ve overcome her. But he’s much, much more content with how things played out for him. They’ll probably get Os anyway, regardless of the score percentage.

He knows Harry would be waiting for him outside the exam hall. The Gryffindor turned in his exam paper a few minutes ago, with a satisfied look on his face. All those study sessions Granger organised for Harry and Weasley paid off. Draco attended those as well, courtesy of an invitation Granger extended that was accompanied by Weasley’s noncommittal grunts. Not as if he needed to participate in study sessions, but it was more of an effort to bond with Harry’s friends. It’d worked, surprisingly.

It took him and Weasley some time to get used to each other and it took them even longer to be on civil speaking terms. As about Granger, it went much smoothly with her, and Draco has come to appreciate her company. He might even begin to call her his friend one of those days.

Longbottom also seems unusually accepting of him, as is Lovegood. The only problem with Harry’s entourage is posed by Dean Thomas. Imprisonment at his family’s manor might have to do something with it. By extension, Ginevra Weasley doesn’t quite tolerate him either, but he supposes there might be other underlying reasons on her part. But fairly enough, Draco is pleased to have the acceptance of Granger, Weasley, Longbottom and Lovegood. It’s more than enough and certainly more than he expected.

The whole school got used to them quicklier than anticipated, as well. By the end of February, no one even blinked an eye at Draco sitting at the Gryffindor table at meals, or at him and Harry walking around the school holding hands. Sure enough, his Slytherin peers still gave him a hard time for a while, until Weasley, to everyone’s surprise, stepped in. He’d threatened the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, and a few of their groupies and mates, at a training session during which jinxes were thrown for laughs at Draco, who was simply passing by. Weasley happened to be nearby and took notice, and the anger of a third of the Golden Trio (and subsequently, the entire Trio’s) scared off his assailants.

When Weasley informed him of the event, Harry threw quite the fit, thoroughly upset with the fact that Draco hadn’t said a word until then and that he didn’t get the chance to set things right himself. Of course, the Golden Boy blamed himself for not noticing Draco’s issues with the other students and for not intervening months ago. It wasn’t his fault, those people would have never acted on Draco with Harry nearby. But Harry took it upon himself to accompany Draco everywhere from then on, anyway, rewarding his boyfriend with extra attention and care. Draco couldn’t really complain.

It’s been a good four months. Five, almost. Draco can’t remember ever being so happy. But now that the end of the school year is approaching, stress begins to sweep in, regarding more than just his future after Hogwarts.

He stands up from his seat, turning in his paper with confidence. McGonagall acknowledges him with a curt nod, and he steps out the hall, breathing out in relief as he finally realises this was the last exam he’ll ever take in that hall, at this school.

His boyfriend greets him with a short, sweet kiss. “How was it?” Harry asks him excitedly.

“It went well,” Draco replies, shrugging and taking Harry’s hand in his.

Harry grins. “You aced it, didn’t you?”

Scratching the back of his head with his free hand, Draco nods awkwardly. “Kind of, I suppose.”

Harry kisses him again and ignores the ‘aww’s that came from the other side of the corridor, where a group of fourth year girls were giggling.

“You’re going to give ‘Mione a run for her money,” Harry states proudly.

“I doubt that.” Draco snorts.

Speak of the devil; a Granger with reddened cheeks and sweaty forehead approaches them. “Harry! How’d you do? Don’t you think there were more questions than usual, Malfoy? I mean, sure, they were necessary, but I barely had the time to include—”

“Take a breath, Granger, it’s over,” Draco tells her, exchanging amused looks with Harry.

She listens to him, slumping against the wall. “It feels so good to be finally done, though,” she sighs, smiling all the while. “Happy birthday, by the way!” she cheerfully tells Draco. “Ron and Neville smuggled some stuff from Hogsmeade and we’re celebrating tonight. You should definitely stop by, so we have even more reason to party.”

Draco smiles, pleasantly taken by surprise, but before he can answer, Harry butts in.

“Draco and I have plans for tonight, though,” he says firmly, but with slightly pink cheeks.

“We do?” Draco asks, surprised yet again. They hadn’t made any plans so far.

Granger nods quickly, as if she’d just remembered something. “Oh, right. How silly of me to think you were free tonight. Too bad, the boys promised we’d have a blast.”

“Well, I’m sure we can stop by for a while, can’t we Harry?”

Harry purses his lips. “All right, I suppose we can.”

“Brilliant,” Draco and Granger say at the same time.

 

—

 

If anyone is protesting against Draco Malfoy’s presence in the Gryffindor Common Room, their mouths are probably quickly shut at the sight of Harry Potter’s arm around him. It’s not the first time he’s been in here either, after being bribed with kisses by Harry and led here to spend an afternoon or two. But there’ve never been so many Gryffindors around, not like now. Some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs too, if Draco squints through the crowd.

Harry’s friends had gathered around at some point, to drink to Draco’s birthday, and the blond was pleasantly surprised to see that they got him presents, which was completely unnecessary. A pretty set of quills from Longbottom and Lovegood, some books from Granger, a broom cleaning kit from Weasley. Harry had yet to offer him something, Draco supposes. He’s rather curious, because Harry has been acting a bit weird lately. He thinks it has to do with his plans for later in the evening. But right now, this party is quite all right.

If there was one thing to be sincerely confirmed about Draco’s House, it’s that Slytherins surely know how to party. But not like the Gryffindors, Draco will give them that.

George Weasley had amazed them by sending a package that somehow managed to get past Filch’s vigilance, containing fireworks, sweetened Firewhiskey, newly developed candy with all different kinds of side-effects, and a wizard version of the muggle game Truth or Dare. The game has obviously been a success, judging by the large circle of people sitting on the floor, spinning an enchanted bottle around.

Draco and Harry had refused to participate, commandeering an armchair to themselves so they could spend the time together, sharing a bottle of butterbeer. Watching the game from outside the circle is much more fun, anyway.

Just as the Firewhiskey imbibed by the partygoers starts to have an obvious effect, the noise and music volume of the party increasing, Harry leans into him, warm breath against his ear.

“Hey, let’s go to our room.”

Draco smirks and nods, lifting himself from the armchair, where he was half-perched on Harry’s lap, and pulling Harry up with him. They sneak away unnoticed, out the Common Room and toward the Room of Requirement.

After they got together, they found themselves in need of a space that’s entirely their own, so they ended up frequently summoning a room in which they could spend time together, which resembles a small, cosy apartment. It quickly became ‘their room’. Draco is going to miss it dearly after they graduate.

Harry summons it for the thousandth time the past four months, stepping forward and leading Draco inside. This isn’t really their usual room, Draco instantly notices. A hundred lit candles decorate it, all other sources of light forsaken.

“Do you like it? I was planning on us having dinner here… but with the party in the Common Room and all…” Harry tells him, somewhat nervous.

Draco kisses his cheekbone. “I love it, it looks amazing.”

Digging into his pocket, Harry smiles. “As for your gift…” he trails off, extending his palm toward Draco. In its centre lies a key, a ribbon tied to it in a lovely bow in lieu of a keychain. “Happy birthday, love.”

“Harry. What is that?” Draco asks, already having a faint idea of what his gift might be.

“Ah, right. Well, this is a key to 12 Grimmauld Place. My home, that is. You’re free to use it whenever you want, but I’m not sure I would be happy with you just coming over. So, here comes my question. Draco, will you move in with me?”

Move in with Harry? Sure, he’s been worried about how their relationship would evolve after Hogwarts, and it seems like Harry’s been too. But he’d never expected this. The idea brings a bright smile to his face. Weekends spent in bed, baths taken together, meals cooked and shared, the general domesticity. Then, something occurs to him. Relationships change when cohabitation is brought into the equation. What if they aren’t compatible when living together? Sleeping patterns, cleaning duties, bathroom schedules, flaws that would surface and become intolerable… there are a lot of things that could make them insufferable to one another. They’ve never truly fought, yet. It’s been four amazing months. He’s not sure they’re ready to take such a step.

Harry notices the frown that replaces Draco’s smile. “It’s all right if you don’t want to, you don’t even have to accept the key—”

“I really would love to come live with you.” He really would. It would be perfect. Mother would manage on her own, he’d visit as often as he can. She would probably encourage him to get a place in London and to ask Harry to move in with him, anyway. She’s been truly supportive of their relationship since Draco informed her of it. “But I’m not sure we’re ready for it. It might not… work out the way we want.”

“Draco, we’ve practically lived together in the Room of Requirement those four months. And it worked out great. I’m not sure we’re ready to be apart, honestly.”

It’s true. They’ve locked themselves away in this room for several hours every day, not to mention the countless nights they spent here together. They’re already kind of living together, right? They didn’t have any issues with each other all those months. If any should arise in the future, they’ll work past it, won’t they? The smile returns to Draco’s face, and he reaches out, taking the key from Harry’s hand.

“You’re right. Thank you, this is the best gift you could have possibly given me,” he confesses, then he kisses Harry soundly, hands skilfully seeking the buttons of his shirt.

“Well, there’s renovations to be done, the place isn’t in the best shape… And we’ll also have Teddy over a lot…” Harry tries explaining between kisses.

“Potter, I’m trying to get you in bed, don’t mention my infant second cousin and work with me here,” he says with urgency, having managed to undo several buttons and rip a couple off Harry’s shirt. Harry didn’t seem to mind.

“Oi, I thought it was your birthday, not mine,” Harry says, amused at how eagerly Draco begins to trail kisses down his neck and chest. “Shoes and socks,” he adds, knowing that it’s never a good time to remove those.

Draco nods, impatiently taking off the items. “Glasses,” he tells Harry, remembering that they might get in the way later on. The Gryffindor’s glasses are placed on a nearby table.

He makes a distracted noise of protest when Harry pushes him into the direction of the bed, using a touch of wandless magic to get the candles out of his way and to swiftly undo the buttons of Draco’s shirt, all at the same time.

“Have I told you how hot you are when you do that?” Draco tells him, a look of awe and lust on his face.

Harry shrugs, smirking at the same time. “You might have, once or twice.” And he pushes Draco on the bed, then he kneels in front of it, hands gripping at Draco’s thighs before going for the buckle of his trousers.

Draco complies, lifting his hips to allow the removal of the trousers, sighing in anticipation. He twitches involuntarily when Harry drags his lips and tongue along the inside of his thigh, following the sensitive strip of skin upwards. Then Harry starts mouthing at the material of his underwear, encouraging the erection it covers.

“You tease,” Draco huffs, balancing his weight on his elbows, so he can watch Harry’s ministrations. The sight of the brunet between Draco’s legs, on his knees, can only contribute to the rush of blood southward. Harry simply places his hands on Draco’s hips, so he can toy with the waistband of his boxers. Then he pulls Draco forward, only half of his bottom resting on the edge of the bed, for the sake of a good angle. With one last hot press of his tongue against the bulge in Draco’s underwear, he removes the garment and throws it aside, without a care for where it lands.

“Happy birthday to me,” Draco whispers, just as Harry’s mouth takes in the tip of his cock. He grips at the sheets impatiently as Harry’s tongue draws lazy circles around the tip. One of the Gryffindor’s hands pins Draco’s hip to the bed, to discourage any jerks from the blond, while the other comes around the base of Draco’s cock, with a weak pump.

Draco moans shamelessly when Harry takes as much length as he can in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and giving it a thorough suck. He releases it seconds later, leaving Draco’s cock in the air, pink and covered in saliva, the tip revealing droplets of precum. Draco whines.

“Your prick is so fucking pretty,” Harry says, giving it a long, hard pump. Draco’s hips buck slightly in response. Then, he starts pressing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of it, tongue hot on the hardened skin. “Tastes fucking good, too.”

Draco is only capable of uttering Harry’s name in praise, among other foul words, as Harry’s lips encircle his cock again, this time for fast, rough sucks, his hand working in tandem at the base, at the same quickened pace. The vulgar sounds produced by Harry’s mouth on him are covered by his own moans and groans. One of his hands finds its way in Harry’s hair, fingers tangling themselves in the strands, in a plea to go deeper.

He’s about to tell Harry that he’s close when Harry stops, removing his warm mouth from Draco’s prick, revelling in the complaints that follow. All those skills that Harry has acquired in the past months include knowing when to stop, which is exactly when Draco starts nearing the edge. The blond breathes out shakily in disappointment.

“Oh, don’t despair. I have bigger plans for you,” Harry assures him, removing his trousers and shirt, and joining Draco on the bed.

“You’d better,” Draco says, reaching up to find Harry’s lips, not minding that he’d taste himself in the kiss. “But that was a damn good blowjob.”

“Hmm, thank you. Don’t worry, you’ll get another one like it on your next birthday,” Harry declares, removing Draco’s shirt and tossing it aside, just like he did with the rest of their clothes.

“For your own bloody sake, Potter, I hope you’re joking and that you won’t deprive me of your talented blowjobs for a year,” Draco says, secretly delighted by the allusion that the next June 5th will find them together still.

“I wouldn’t want to give up my own blowjob privileges. But love, not all blowjobs can be as good as birthday blowjobs, can they?”

“Now is not the time to get smart with me, Potter. I believe there was talk of bigger plans.”

Harry hums in approval, dragging his fingers down Draco’s ribs in a slow caress, then he pushes Draco down on the mattress again. He straddles Draco’s hips, then he leans down, kissing the white scars on Draco’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he mutters on a mournful tone, as he always does when his fingers or mouth find the scars.

Draco shushes him gently. “I know, love,” he replies, hooking his fingers under Harry’s chin to guide him into a searing kiss. Harry replies promptly, their lips colliding with familiarity in an urgent press. The Gryffindor moans when Draco bites his lower lip then sucks on it ardently. Then, Draco bucks his hips, his neglected erection pressing against Harry’s still-clothed one, eliciting an even deeper moan from his lover.

In response, Harry grinds down on him, making Draco clutch at the brunet’s hips.

“Fuck, _Harry_ ,” Draco gasps. “Take off your pants.”

Harry smirks, fulfilling Draco’s wish by reaching for his wand on the nightstand where he placed it earlier and Banishing his underwear across the room, unwilling to lift himself off Draco. He keeps the wand close, knowing they’d need it later.

Harry’s breathing hitches when Draco licks his palm and drags it along the impressive length of his prick. Curling his hand into a loose fist, he starts pumping slowly, picking up the pace with each thrust. He stops from time to time, brushing his thumb against the tip of Harry’s cock, teasing at the slit, then he resumes his thrusting, changing the rhythm from slow to fast to slow again. 

“Bigger plans, Draco,” Harry reminds his lover, sighing when Draco interrupts the lovely hand job he was giving.

Draco shrugs, as if he is indifferent to Harry’s choice, but still licks his lips in anticipation, resting his hands on Harry’s thighs. With one last sloppy, vulgar kiss, accompanied by a thorough grind of hips, Harry slides off the Slytherin’s body, settling between his legs. Draco spreads them open, wantonly putting himself on display.

In the earlier days of their relationship, they’d explicitly ask permission from and voice assurance to one another, but after weeks and weeks of exploration, they instinctually know how to get in sync, and what the other likes, needs and wants. They share one look, Harry asking and Draco confirming in less than a second.

Harry places two kisses, one the side of Draco’s knee and the other on the inside of his thigh, before placing a pillow under the Slytherin’s lower back and casting a lubrication spell. He then teases gently at Draco’s puckered hole, delighted by the shiver and hiss he elicits from the blond.

“If keep on teasing me, Potter, expect to be teased back next time, when it’s my turn to fuck you,” Draco hisses when Harry’s fingers do everything but breach.

Harry laughs. “Hush, I’m in charge tonight. And I believe it’s called making love, you brute.” And with that, he pushed his slicked finger forward, making Draco groan. Slowly, he traces the tight walls with the pad of his finger.

“It’s my birthday, you have to do what _I_ want,” Draco protests, wanting nothing more than to rock back and forth to the slow rhythm set by Harry’s finger.

Harry leans down, lips brushing seductively against the shell of Draco’s ear. “I already know what you want,” he whispers, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. Without any warning, he adds a second finger in, curving them and dragging them in a way that makes Draco close his eyes and lean his head back. Harry dutifully muffles the quiet moans with his mouth, their tongues meeting messily in sloppy kisses.

“Fuck me, make love to me, Harry, I don’t care, just…” Draco pants, twitching when Harry’s fingers find his prostate. His hips cant and buck up, admitting in his stead that he wants more.

The third finger makes Draco’s hot breathing hitch. His back arches, and his rock-hard cock leaves glinting traces of precum on his stomach. Harry kisses his throat, enjoying the vibrations of the moans. With a particularly hard suck, followed by a soft bite and a lick to lovingly end his work that will surely leave marks, he draws his head back. He smirks at the lovely nonsense coming from Draco’s wet lips.

“You’re gorgeous. I love it when you’re like this, under me. Just perfect,” he whispers to Draco, nosing at his jaw, before withdrawing the fingers. He places the head of his prick at Draco’s entrance. “And you’re all mine.”

“Yours, yours, Harry… please,” Draco whispers, voice breaking.

Harry pushes in, slowly, Draco’s loud gasp filling his ears. Moaning at the tight warmth engulfing his cock, he leans down again, meeting Draco’s waiting mouth. The blond’s hands find the muscles of Harry’s shoulders, scratching and kneading.

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco grunts against the lips worshipping his own. “Move.”

Harry complies, drawing back and then thrusting deep, his hips slapping the back of Draco’s thighs. “Fuck,” he whispers, biting down on Draco’s lip. In response, Draco spreads his legs even more, stretching them to a maximum and pushing his knees back so they don’t get in Harry’s way.

Another thrust leaves them both breathless, breaking the kiss. Their eyes meet, pupils blown wide with lust. One of Harry’s hands finds its way on Draco’s cheek, thumb resting on the chin, then traveling to brush Draco’s lower lip.

Watching Harry through his eyelashes intently, Draco takes the tip of the thumb in his mouth to suck on it, tongue brushing hard against the pad. Harry pants, cock twitching inside Draco’s arse. He sets a pace, slow at first, savouring the way in which Draco’s arse welcomes him and tightens around his cock.

Their breathing becomes harsh and audibly in tandem. Harry removes his hand from Draco’s face, his thumb released with a wet pop from the blond’s warm mouth, and places it on Draco’s cock instead, fingers curling around it. The thumb wettened by Draco’s saliva teases the slit, gathering more moisture. The short, quick tugs of his prick that follow, synchronised with the thrusts of Harry’s cock inside his arse, make Draco whimper loudly.

“ _More_ ,” he cries, toes curling and hands digging into the skin of Harry’s back, pulling him closer.

With a small kiss planted to Draco’s shoulder, Harry continues his ministrations to Draco’s cock, but also picks up the pace, changing the angle by shifting his weight. Other hand gripping at Draco’s hip for better control, his cock slides in and out faster, deeper. The new rhythm and angle make it hard for them to delay their approaching orgasms, impatience getting the best of them.

Feeling the tip of Harry’s cock against his prostate with each push of their hips, Draco lets out a plethora of sounds, combined with chunks of foul and loving words meant to sing Harry’s praise. “So good, so fucking good, Harry, love, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Harry’s hand on his prick combined with the cock sliding in and out of him bring Draco to the edge first. He comes with a sharp cry, overwhelmed by the pleasure, hot spurts of cum landing on both his stomach and Harry’s hand. Draco’s arse spasms around Harry’s cock in the aftermath of the blond’s orgasm, bringing the Gryffindor close to his own completion. Harry throws his head back, and with a few last desynchronized thrusts, he lets Draco’s arse coax a powerful orgasm out of him. He trembles, as his cock throbs and fills Draco up with his seed.

Careful not to crush Draco, Harry lets himself fall, half on the bed and half on Draco. His head finds a place on Draco’s chest, while one of his legs settle in between Draco’s.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” Draco gasps, out of breath. Harry hears and feels the echo of Draco’s heart beating fast, and he smiles, realising that his own heart beats in the exact same way.

“I know,” Harry pants in response, casting a wandless _Scourgify_ on them before their cum and sweat can dry and become uncomfortable on their skin. Then, his arm circles Draco’s waist, hand resting possessively on one of the hips.

Draco places a long kiss on the top of Harry’s head and buries his nose in his hair, as his own arm, the one Harry fell on, comes around the Gryffindor, fingers tracing patterns and circles on the skin of Harry’s back.

They remain like this for a while, naked and silent, as their breathing and pulse calm down, still basking in the aftermaths of their intense orgasms.

“I really, really love you. A lot,” Harry whispers, somewhat shyly, against the skin of Draco’s chest. His grip tightens on Draco’s hip.

“I love you, too, more than you know,” Draco whispers back, words muffled by Harry’s hair. His arm hugs Harry lovingly. Harry doesn’t reply, but he tilts his head to place a sweet kiss on Draco’s throat, right under his jaw.

Humming happily and fighting tiredness, Harry displays his wandless magic one last time, Summoning a blanket to cover him, as both of them start to feel the chill in the air.

“I have something to tell you,” Draco says out of a sudden.

Harry lifts himself of Draco’s chest, slightly alarmed by the blond’s words. Balancing his weight on his elbows, he frowns in concern, eyes seeking Draco’s. The Slytherin quickly shakes his head, wordlessly assuring him that it’s nothing bad and that panic isn’t necessary. To further reassure his boyfriend, Draco leans in, stealing a kiss from Harry which is so loving and honest that it leaves them both smiling. Then, he pulls Harry down, back to their cuddle, his hand toying with the dark strands of hair.

“I’ve decided what I want to do after we graduate,” Draco confesses.

“You have?” Harry asks, both surprised and happy.

Draco’s future has been a matter of discussion between the two of them. In the last months, the Slytherin has changed his mind, no longer wishing to become a Curse-Breaker. He’s seen enough dark magic for a lifetime, he has no desire to be around it anymore, even though he could join the fight against it. Harry has been encouraging him to pursue whatever he wants, being truly supportive, but Draco has been at a loss for weeks, unable to decide on a path to follow.

Snape vowed to write a recommendation letter for him, regardless of Draco’s field of choice, although the Potions Master has been subtly suggesting that he would make a great potioneer if he so chooses. Draco briefly considered it, but the idea didn’t stick. He doesn’t have the passion.

There’s only one thing Draco is passionate about. And a discussion with Granger, held some days ago, finally shed some light on how to combine it with his future.

“I want to become a Healer.”

“A Healer? That’s wonderful, Draco,” Harry says, pleasantly surprised by the news.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“How come, though? I thought you’d accept Snape’s offer and take an apprenticeship under him,” Harry asks curiously.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Draco replies, smiling and stroking the skin of Harry’s back with the back of his fingers.

“Not to me, it isn’t. I mean, I’m proud of you and happy you want to pursue such a career, and I would have supported you no matter what, but you’ve never mentioned this before,” the Gryffindor confesses.

“You’re going to become an Auror, Harry. You’re going to put yourself in danger in a daily basis, and knowing you, you won’t even try to avoid it. I’m going to worry myself to death. So, this way, I’ll be ready to patch you up at the end of the day. If I get a job at St. Mungo’s, even better, I’ll make sure you’re the top priority at all times, if, Salazar forbid, you’ll land your arse in there.”

Harry lifts himself on his elbows again, to look Draco in the eye, utmost seriousness etched on his face. “Draco. Please tell me you’re not doing this just because I’ll be an Auror. I can’t let you do that.”

Draco simply smiles. “Hush, you stubborn idiot. It’s my future and my career. It’s convenient, true, but I have no other calling, honestly. All I want is to keep you safe and since your path won’t allow it, I want mine to. And admit it, I’d look amazing in Healer robes. Maybe I’ll open my own practice and save lots of lives, which means I’ll pay my dues to the magical society while making a small fortune at the same time—”

Harry interrupts his speech, clashing their mouths together into a hard kiss. Draco replies fervently. It’s true, he really does want to keep Harry safe and this is why he’s choosing to become a Healer. There are other upsides to it, of course, but he would never have considered it if it wasn’t for Harry’s sake.

“You slimy Slytherin,” Harry declares after they break the kiss.

“Oi, you’re in love with this slimy Slytherin,” Draco says, pulling them both down on the mattress and covering them with the blanket.

“That I am. I’m also moving in with this slimy Slytherin and I’ll also marry him someday. Just letting you know,” Harry says, dragging Draco closer and smiling with confidence.

Draco blushes and lets himself be tucked into an embrace against the bare skin of Harry’s chest. The Gryffindor’s chin rests protectively on top of Draco’s head.

His Patronus never stood a chance. It was never meant to be a dragon, he realises. It will never be anything but a stag.

“Good night, love,” Draco whispers, a smile blooming on his face as he pictures the future they’ll have together. He falls asleep, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest, happier that he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! It took me more than six months to finish this, so also thank you for being patient with me to all of you who subscribed, bookmarked, commented, and kudo'ed. You've encouraged me to get off my ass and finish what I started, and I'm very grateful. I hope you've enjoyed this last chapter! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and leave kudos if you'd like!


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